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WILLIS STEELL 


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i-i 


Mortal 




Illustrated by MAUDE RICHMOND 


" New Yohk 

BELFORD COMPANY, Publishers 
18-22 East 18th Street 
(P ublishers of BeJford's Magazitie) 

Belford American Novel Series. No. 27. April 28. 1890. Annual Subscription $i5 00. Issued 
weekly. Entered at the Post Ofllce at NewYork as second cihas matter. 




MORTAL LIPS 


BY> 


WILLIS '^STEELL 


. . . Like images 

In a lone lake. The watcher sees 
Lips smiling to him from the brim ; 

Alas, intangible to him ! 

Hesper and Phosphor 


ILLUSTRATED BY MAUDE RICHMOND 



0 


BELFORD COMPANY 

18-22 EAST i8tH STREEI', NEW YORK 
PUBLISHERS 



Copyright, 1890, by 

BELFORD COMPANY. 


TO 


FRANCIS LIVINGSTON MOODEY. 





CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

The Theatre Coupon, . . . . . .7 

Mock Turtle Soup, . . . . . .23 

The Miniature, . . . . . . .37 

A Gunpowder Plot, ...... 59 

Chestnuts, . . . . . . . .76 

The Compromising Letters, ..... 97 

Mary’s Interlude, . . . . . . .113 

A Land Breeze, ....... 137 

The Three Guardsmen, . . . . . .159 

A First Appearance, . . . . . .177 


THE LITTLE HOUSE IN HARLEM. 


Julius Mathews, 

. its master. 

Madge Mathews, 

its mistress. 

Charles Vane, 

guest. 

Clara Vane, 

guest. 

Phil Solder, 

guest. 

Mary, 

the maid. 

Lafayette, . 

colored, a butler for a day. 


THE THEATRE COUPON. 
MOCK TURTLE SOUP. 


MORTAL LIPS 



THE THEATRE COUPON. 


Scene. — The little house in Harlem. Table set for dinner. Doors 
R. L. and centre door into hall. Handsome fireplace, etc. 

[Mrs. Mathews and Mary discovered. The former 
moving about restlessly 

Mary , — The eyesters is burnt up, mum, an’ ’tis sivin 
by the clock. 

Mrs. M. — Yes, yes, I know, Mary. Mr. Mathews is 
very late, but he must come soon now. Try to keep 
the dinner nice for a while longer. 

Mary. — Sure, mum, an’ this aint the Brunswick. 
7 


8 


MORTAL LIPS. 


I’ll be puttin’ the things back in the oven to take 
their chance. It would be more convanient if we was 
livin’ on a flat. 

Mrs. M . — Well, do the best you can. Stay, Mary. 
Oh, Mary, do you think something has happened to 
him ! Julius is always so prompt. Perhaps there has 
been an accident on that terrible Elevated ! 

Mary . — There, mum, don’t be worritin’ because he’s 
late. . It’s the way with the men. Me sister’s man, 
Tom, is just like him. If he’s expecting a wake in 
the house an’ a friend asks him to take a drink — 

Mrs. M. — You may go now, Mary. Wait a min- 
ute ; I think I hear a key in the lock. Yes, it is my 
husband. Serve the dinner, Mary. 

{Enter flushed and breathless. Kisses Madge.] 

Julitis. — Here we are, Madge. 

Madge. — Oh, Julius, are you hurt ? Was there an 
accident ? 

Julius. — Am I hurt ? There’s a cheerful idea. 
What put that into your head ? 

Madge . — But, dear, you are so late. 

Julius . — Where’s the dinner? Isn’t it ready? I 
am dying of hunger. ’ I will tell you all about it while 
we eat. 


THE THE A TEE COUPON. 


9 


Madge. — I am afraid everything is spoiled. But 
never mind ; you have no bones broken, and that is 
the principal thing. Here comes Mary with the oys- 
ters. 

{They seat themselves at table. JULIUS pulls out hand- 
kerchief to wipe his brow and brings zvith it a slip 
of pink cardboard., which falls to the floor l\ 

fulius. — It’s fearfully warm here, Madge. Can’t 
you lower the gas or something ? 

Madge. — Oh, you have been running, dear, because 
you were late. Tell me what kept you. 

Julius. — You are the first cause, my darling. I 
stopped off at Park Place on my way up-town to get 
you that back number of the fashion paper — By 
Jove, I came off without it, at last ! 

Madge. — Never mind, Julius. You stopped off, 
and then ? 

fulius. — And then, as I was crossing the park, some- 
body clapped me on the shoulder ; that somebody was 
no other than Phil Solder. 

Madge. — What a funny name ! Who, pray, is Phil 
Solder ? 

fulius. — Phil Solder. Madge, that’s too bad ! If I 
have spoken once of Phil, I have a hundred times. 


lO 


MORTAL LIPS. 


He was at Princeton my last year. The best com- 
pany in the world. I have only met him once or twice 
since then, and till to-day I had not seen him since our 
marriage. He is as young as ever. A great smoker 
and awfully Bohemian, he has drifted naturally into 
journalism. I should have asked him to dine with us 
but for the inflexible rule — no invitation unless you 
have been warned. I’ll ask him some other time if 
you say so. Oh, Phil is jolly ; you’ll like Phil. We 
went into Hudnut’s for a little talk : how the beggar 
made me laugh ! Phil is on the Dramatic Press. By 
the way, you want to see the play at the Union 
Square : he offered to give me two seats. 

Madge. — It will be charming. Shall I have Mary 
bring up the coffee now? 

Julius. — Just wait a minute till I fill my pipe. 

{Exit Julius, door r.] 

Madge. — Put on your slippers, dear, while Mary and 
I clear the table. We will sit in this room, as it’s 
pleasanter. {She stoops to pick up napkin from the 
floor. Discovers pink slip.'] Why, what is this? No. 
24. A theatre coupon ! Julius must have dropped it. 
I wonder — 


{Re-enter Julius.] 


THE THE A TEE COUPON. 


II 


Julius . — What are you thinking about, little one ? 
Madge . — Are you very busy at the office nowadays, 
Julius ? 

Julius. — Uni — ah — so-so. ' • 

Madge . — How I wish you could find time to go to 



a matinee with me again ! Don't you remember how 
fond we were of matinees before we were married ? 

Julius . — You were, of course. As for me, I felt out 
of place among a lot of women. 

Madge . — We have never been since — together, I 
mean. 

Julius . — I have not been at all. 


12 


MORTAL LIPS. 


Madge. — Are you sure, Julius? 

Madge. — Sure of what ? 

Madge. — That you have never been to a matinee 
since we were married. 

Julius. — Certainly not. What time have I for that 
sort of thing? Why do you ask ? 

Madge. — To find out — if you are working too hard. 

Julius. — What nonsense ! 

Madge. — \Sotto vocel\ Is it nonsense? I havn’t 
been to the theatre in over a month. Mary didn’t 
have her day out last week ; and, besides, she wouldn’t 
take an orchestra reserve. This theatre ticket didn’t 
come here by itself, so my husband must have brought 
it. He went to a matinee to-day, and I don’t believe 
he went alone! Where is the mate to this ticket? 
Oh, he probably sent it by mail and met her at the 
theatre, as if by chance. It’s clear now what made 
him late to dinner. Julius invented that story of a col- 
lege chum to deceive me. But I’m not to be so easily 
deceived. \_Aloudl\ I think I will get my work. 

{Places coupon on the mantelpiece behind rose jar^ and 
exit L.] 

Julius. — What ails this pipe that it won’t draw? I’ll 
try some fire. Where are the matches ? It beats all 


THE THEATRE COUPON. 


13 


how my wife covers the chimney-piece with knick- 
knacks. Ah ! there you are behind that candlestick ! 
\He sees coupon?^ Hullo! What’s this? She went 
to the theatre to-day ; queer she never mentioned it. 

[Re-enter Madge with her embroidery^ 

Madge. — Do you like this pattern, Julius? 

Julius. — Did you go out to-day, Madge ? 

Madge. — Oh, no indeed : the weather was too bad. 

Julius. — You stopped at home all day ? 

Madge. — Yes, and it isn’t the first time. 

Julius. — I know it, and I congratulate you. A wife 
should love her home. Now let me read. [Aside l\ 
Why didn’t she tell me? She knows I should be 
pleased if she enjoyed the play. I wonder what the- 
atre she went to. Of course she went to one — that 
coupon couldn’t come here by itself ; Madge brought 
it. She denies she was out because she went some- 
where or with someone I wouldn’t approve. Who 
could he have been ? It’s clear she tells an untruth. 
There is some mystery here, and I mean to solve it at 
once. [Tosses his book into the corner. Aloud ^ an- 
grily^ Now I want to know all about it. 

Madge. — Julius, how you startled me! 

Julius. — Tell me the truth ; you went out to-day ? 


14 


MORTAL LIPS. 


Madge— ]\xX\\x^, that is too much. For the last ten 
minutes I have been embroidering outside of my 
design and pricking my fingers on the needle, wonder- 
ing why you attempt to deceive me, and now you ask 
me if I went out to-day. I have already told you I 
did not. 

Julius, — Yes, yes; I know it : you say that to turn 



the conversation ; but I beg you to answer this ques- 
tion : Were you at a matinee to-day ^ 

Madge , — It is my right to ask questions, sir, if it 
comes to that. I desire that you tell me the truth at 
once: were you at a matinee to-day? 

Julius . — How absurd! I can scarcely credit your 


THE THEATRE COUPON. 1 5 

duplicity. Answer me, were you at a matinee to- 
day.^ 

Both. — Were you at a matinee to-day? 

Madge. — Hush ! there is Mary. I wish to act, sir, 
as if you had a character left to preserve. 

[Enter Mary.] 

Mary. — If you plaze, mum, the dishes will hould over 
to-morrow, an’ I would like to see my sister this even- 
ing. 

Madge. — Quite right ; but get back early. Fill the 
scuttle and set it by the grate, and you are free to go 
to your sister. 

[Mary brings in coal and throws a shovelful on the fire^ 
dusts the mantel^ and exit?^ 

Julius. — I can understaiTd what has been going on 
without an avowal from you. All your comings and 
goings — Macy’s, Lord & Taylor’s, the Academy — 
pure pretexts. Imbecile that I was, never to suspect 
anything, when you displayed so little interest in the 
new plays at the theatres. Why? You had already 
seen them. And I thought you were trying, like a 
good wife, to economize. Oh, fool ! But a man is 
always a fool when he trusts a woman. 


i6 


MORTAL LIPS. 


Madge. — What do you dare to say? I believe if 
either one of us has the right to reproach the other, I 
am that one. The reasons you have offered for being 
late— an accidental meeting with a friend, supplemen- 
tary work at the office — are false, sir; false. For a 
longtime I have been thinking of something — that girl 
whom you were once engaged to. I know her father 
has removed to New York; but you did not inform 
me. Did she look pretty at the theatre to-day ? 

Julius. — Ah, I was expecting to hear her mentioned. 
It is nearly two weeks now since you went over the 
old ground. But I am weary of hearing it. Listen ; 
if ever you pronounce — 

Madge. — Threats ! Oh, there is nothing wanting. 
I am going home to my mother. The poor woman 
won’t be surprised. 

Julius. — Just what I was about to advise. Go, go 
home to your good mother, and stay there as long as 
possible. Stay until I come to claim you. 

\A confused noise on the pavement interrupts him. A 
number of people ascend the steps and enter the hall. 
Words can be caught before the speakers appear 7\ 

Usher. — Well, are we here at last? 

Mary. — \Sobbingl\ I am an honest gurll — sor — I — 


THE THEATRE COUPON. 


17 

Policeman. — That’s what we want to find out. 

Mary. — My missus will give me a charactur — 

Policeman. — Go in first and get it. 

{Enter the above party.'\ 

Madge. — Mary! What has happened ? What have 
you done? 

Julius. — Girl, what is the meaning of this ? 

Policeman. — She says she — 

Usher. — She struck — 

Mary. — I’m an honest gurrl — 

Julius. — Silence ! If everybody speaks at once, it 
won’t be possible to understand anyone. Now, you 
sir, what brings you here ? 

Usher. — I beg pardon, sir, but — 

Mary.^Y^^t me speak first, sor. Mum — oh, mum, 
listen to me, mum. It’s blessed truth I say. 

Julius. — Go ahead, then, Mary : tell your story ; but 
be calm. 

Mary. — Mum and sor. I went straight to me sis- 
ter, Mrs. Harrigan, after I left this house, an’ it was 
there, mum an’ sor, I expected to find Mrs. Harrigan. 
But divil a bit, savin’ yer presence, mum an’ sor, for 
it’s the excitement, only little Sallie mindin’ the 
childer, an’ her mother gone wid Tom to the Harlem 


i8 


MORTAL LIPS. 


Theayter. Sure, mum an’ sor, I had the money in my 
pocket, and what did I do but go after them. There 
sat a little man in a cage, an’ he sould me a ticket in 
the orchester — faith, that was the only seat lift in the 
house, the man in the cage swore to me, mum an’ sor. 
So in I walks like a leddy, an’ the curtain up. This 
spalpeen met me at the dour an’ asked for me check. 
He said it was half the ticket the man outside had 
give me, an’ that was in me pocket. When he took it 
he went afore me to a seat, an’ there was a lady in it 
already, with a pink paper the twin of me own. Then 
this spalpeen turned me ticket over and over, and said 
it belonged to Wallick. That made me mad, mum and 
sor, an’ I snatched me ticket from him wid me left 
hand, and clipped him at the same time wid me right. 
He was goin’ to hit me back, an’ me a leddy, but a 
gintleman, bliss him, stepped up, an’ then they calls 
the bobbies, an’ was takin’ us both to the station. I 
begged ’em to bring me here, mum an’ sor, for it was 
you as would give me a character. 

Julius . — Why didn’t you go back to the ticket-seller, 
Mary ? Of course it was his mistake. 

Usher . — He had gone home, sir: but the check the 
girl gave me surely came off a Wallack ticket. 

Mary. — You’re a loiar. 


THE THEATRE COUPON. 1 9 

Policeman. — What interest can he have, Mary, in 
saying your check’s bad, if it’s good ? 

Usher. — Perhaps you had two checks in your pocket ; 
were you ever at Wallack’s, Mary ? 

Mary. — Niver once. I had that one, an’ niver an- 
ether. You can see for yourself. \Tiirning out her 
pocket Howly saints ! there’s two of ’em ! Oh, that 
explains it, mum an’ son It is me as gave the bad 
one for the good. 

Usher. — Where did that coupon come from, Mary ? 

Mrs. M. — Mr. Mathews can answer that question. 

Julius. — Mrs. Mathews can explain that. 

Mary. — Sure an’ it’s easy now to remember. I was 
brushin’ off the chimney-piece after I’d fitched the 
scuttle, an’ I saw that bit of board stickin’ there. So 
I whisked it into my pocket, meanin’ to throw it away. 

{The hall bell jingles violently l\ 

Mrs. M. — Run, Mary, and see who is there ; tell 
them I’m not at home. 

{Enter Phil Solder in a tremendous hurry ^ pushing 
Mary aside 

Phil. — {Faintlyl\ Mathews ! Mathews ! 


20 


MORTAL LIPS. 


Julius. — The world has run mad. What is it ? 
What is the matter with you ? 

Phil. — [S inking- into a chair. '\ I beg pardon, Mrs. 
Mathews, for pushing myself in like this, but I am in 
the greatest perplexity. Tell me, Julius, have you 
found in your pocket a theatre coupon ? 

Julius. — Still another! Perhaps you mean this 
one ? 

Phil. — Yes, yes, that’s it. Oh, I’m thankful to get it 
again. 

Julius. — But explain ! 

Phil. — Oh, it’s simple enough. You know how I’m 
always playing one foolish trick or another, and when 
we were in Hudnut’s, I shoved that matinee coupon 
into your pocket without reflecting that I had written 
on the back of it the address of some friends who 
expect me to dinner this evening. They are not in 
the directory. What a search I’ve had ! 

Julius. — Defend me from a practical joker ! If it 
were not for our old friendship, this should not pass 
so easily. 

Phil. — No ? Why not ? 

Julius. — Why not ? It would take too long to tell, 
but you must know that, thanks to your clever prank, 
I have had-a violent discussion with my wife, and our 



y 





22 


MORTAL LIPS. 


good Mary here has barely escaped spending the night 
in prison. 

Phil, — Oh, Julius ! Pray accept a thousand excuses. 
I was very far from foreseeing. Mrs. Mathews, I can 
only throw myself on your clemency. Now I demand 
permission to save myself. My friends expected me 
at eight o’clock; it is nearer nine. I have just time 
to take a swift cab and carry my apologies. Mrs. 
Mathews, Julius, pardon me and good-bye. 

{Exeujit all except husbaiid and wifel\ 

Mrs. M. — Julius! 

Mr. M . — Madge ! 



r 



MOCK TURTLE SOUP. 

A PROLOGUE TO A DINNER. 


Scene. — Same as in “ Theatre Coupon.” 

Time. — Sunday afternoon. 

[Julius is discovered lying asleep on a lounge. Madge 
at the window.'] 

Madge. — Julius ! 

Julius. — Eh ! 

Madge. — I am sure it’s going to rain. Come and 
look at this cloud. 

Julius. — \Yawningl\ Nonsense! It will blow over. 
Madge. — It will not blow over, Julius. It has re- 
mained stationary for nearly an hour. 

23 


24 


MORTAL LIPS. 


Julius . — Sunday is a day of rest for clouds as well 
as man. Let me sleep. 

Mrs. M . — But the Vanes won’t come if it rains, and 
I have provided so many more things than we need. 
Lafayette, too, whom you insisted on having up from 
your office to act as butler — of course, you must pay 
him, whether the Vanes come or not. 



Julius . — A trifle, Madge; don’t worry about the 
dinner. But why do you say I insisted on having 
Lafayette to serve ? 

Mrs. M. — Well, we know the Vanes have a colored 
butler, and I don’t blame you for wishing to make an 


MOCK TURTLE SOUP. 


25 


equally good appearance. It's a pity he’s so awkward. 
[A noise of breaking glass is heard.'] There, listen to 
that ! He will drive Mary frantic. 

Julius. — I have no doubt there will be a war of races 
in the kitchen. I should like to be there unseen to 
see. 

Mrs. M. — He is such a good soul. How he loves 
you, Julius ! 

Julius. — Who ? 

Mrs. M. — Lafayette. When he came he bowed 
almost to the floor, and made so many polite speeches 
that I asked him where he learned them. Said he, 
waving his hand quite in your manner, Julius, “ I’se a 
studyin’ Marse Mathews, Miss Mathews. I’se a 
fashionin' myse’f on him.” 

Julius. — Absurd ! 

Mrs. M. — Not at all. I call it very flattering. 
Mercy, Julius, what is that? 

[Enter Mary, l., in great indignation. Lafayette 
follows her.] 

What now, Mary? Has the range exploded? 

Mary . — [Hoarsely.] No, mum; but I have, mum ; 
an’ niver a minute longer will I stay in me kitchen wid 
that black nagur, mum ! 


26 


MORTAL LIPS. 


Julius. — \_Laughing.'] I told you so. What’s the row, 
Mary ? What trick has Lafayette been playing you ? 

Mary. — What ain’t he, sir? Breakin’ chany an’ 
glass, mum, till it’s a heavy bill he’ll have to pay out 
of his wages, an’ him no wages but his day’s wurruk. 
Tain’t the half of it, mum. No, mum ; I shan’t stand 
no nagur’s arm round me waist, an’ his black fingers 
under me chin, an’ me as had no wurrud to say to 
Teddy — 

Mrs. M. — Why, Mary, is it possible ? 

Julius. — Lafayette, you old rascal, this is carrying a 
joke too far, 

Mrs. M. — How mild you are, Julius! Such actions 
are outrageous! 

Mary. — Faith, so they be, mum ; an’ him to say 
that the mast — 

Mrs. M. — {Quickly l\ What did he say, Mary? 

Mary . — As he’d saw the master do the likes of that 
wid the type-writer gurrl ; but whativer her character 
may be, mum — 

Madge. — Are you sure he said that? Lafayette, 
did you say that ? 

Lafayette. — Oh, yes. Miss Mathews, I see marse do 
dat. It’s great fun, he say ; an’ dat it is, Miss Math- 


ews. 


MOCK TURTLE SOUP. 


27 


Julius.— {Hastily How dare you play your pranks 
on Mary? She is not used to your jesting. Why, 
Madge, the old man is a licensed practical joker, like 
all of his race, you know. But we can’t afford to up- 
set Mary. Here! {Callmg Lafayette and giving 
him money.'] Now pack yourself off. 

Madge. — {With assumed calm.] Lafayette, go and 
rub the parlor furniture ; you will find a duster in the 
hall. We won’t need you till dinner — come when I 
ring. Return to the kitchen, my poor Mary. I will 
protect you from the insults of designing men. 

{Exeujit Lafayette, l. ; Mary, r.] 

Julius. — What a fund of humor have the darkies ! 
Perfectly irresistible and inexhaustible ! I have never 
been South, but I can readily believe that the cotton 
fields and the sugar plantations in the time of harvest 
are the theatre of mirth. By the way, Madge, when 
do they harvest sugar? You are so much better read 
than 1. 

Madge. — I do not know. 

Julius. — And that reminds me ; did you ever taste 
beet-root sugar, Madge? It’s very good sugar; pleas- 
ant taste, but not so sweet and white as — 

Madge. — I understand you, sir. I have been stupid, 


28 


MORTAL LIPS. 


but at last I have learned the lesson all women must 
learn — to distrust all men. [ With suppressed passion^ 
Julius Mathews, I despise you ! 

Julius. — Oh, come, Madge, you mustn’t take stock 
in Lafayette’s little joke. Even if it were true, there 
could be no harm in it. My stenographer is a mere 
child — hardly thirteen. 

Mrs. M. — She must be precocious. {Rings the bell.'\ 

Julius. — She is — very ! Extremely mature — in mind, 
I mean. 

Mrs. M. — So I imagine. {Rings again.'] 

Julius. — Why do you ring ? 

Mrs. J/.— While I think of it, I mean to ask Lafay- 
ette the name and age of your precocious clerk. I 
might forget. 

Julius. — No danger, worse luck! Confound it, 
Madge, don’t make a scene before the servants. 

[Mrs. M. rings again arigrily. Lafayette appears at 
door, L.] 

Mrs. M. — I have rung for you twelve times. 

Julius. — {Asidel] Oh, twelve times ! 

Mrs. M. — That is right, contradict me before a ser- 
vant. 

Julius. — It’s bad form to exaggerate. 


MOCK TURTLE SOUP. 29 

Lafayette, — [As if repeating a lesson.'] Twelve times. 
It’s bad form to ex — 

Mrs. M. — \Excitedl\ You hear! He mocks me! 
How disgusting he is, filling the dining-room with 
cigar smell ! 



fuliiis . — He doesn’t smoke cigars. 

Mrs. M . — With his horrid pipe ! 

Jnliiis . — He doesn’t smoke at all. 

Mrs. M . — Open the window and let out that nasty 
odor of tobacco. 


30 MORTAL LIPS. 

[Julius throws up window, seizes his nevuspaper, and 
reads.'] 

Lafayette. — I’se a fashionin’ of myse’f on Marse 
Mathews, Miss. Marse Mathews don’t smoke — I don’t 
smoke. Marse Mathews read de Sun ; I read de Sun. 

Mrs. M. — That will do. What has the sun to do 
with this affair, except to keep the Vanes from com- 
ing. It aggravates me to hear anyone speak of the 
sun — it hasn’t shone all day. 

Julius. — [Laughing.] Yes, let’s speak of it. The 
Sun is a safe subject. 

Lafayette. — Yes, Miss Mathews, it’s a — 

Mrs. M. — Never mind what it is. [Sweetly?^ How 
old are you, Lafayette ? 

Lafayette. — Lordy, Miss, I dunno. Mos’ twenty, I 
spec. 

Mrs. M. — [More szoeetly.] And how old is Mr. 
Mathew’s type-writer ? 

Lafayette. — Dunno, Miss. Her’s a chile. 

Mrs. M. — Indeed ! That is all. You may go back 
to your polishing. 

[A long silence. JULIUS continues to read his paper. 
Mrs. M. throws herself into an arm-chair, bites her 
nails, taps the floor with her toes, etcT] 


MOCK TURTLE SOUP. 


31 

Julius. — \Relentingl\ What are we to have for din- 
ner? 

Madge. — Oh, you will not die of hunger. You 
know very well that, having expected the Vanes, who 
are not coming — 

Julius. — Well, what are we going to eat ? 

Madge. — Roast beef, squab, sole, vegetables. 

Julius. — Splendid! And what soup? 

Madge. — Mock turtle soup. 

Julius. — Splendid ! 

Madge. — Splendid, of course, because you like it. 

Julius. — I didn’t ask you to have it. For whom did 
you make it ? 

Madge. — For you. 

Julius. — Thanks. You have mock turtle to please 
me, but you are displeased when I say “ splen- 
did.” 

Madge. — No, but you would not say “ splendid” if 
it was something I liked that you didn’t like; and I 
do not like mock turtle soup. 

Jidius. — Why do you have it then ? 

Madge. — Because you like it ; and this is how you 
thank me. I am well paid. 

Julius. — Pshaw, Madge, you are ill-tempered. 

Madge. — Any woman would be in my position. 


32 


IMORTAL LIPS. 


Julius. — Oh, if you are bound to believe what that 
imbecile of a negro says. 

Madge. — I’m sure I wish I had never seen him. But 
you insisted on having him wait to-day. 

Julius. — / insisted 

Madge. — Yes, to lend an air of style to your estab- 
lishment. You want your friend Vane to think you 
richer than you are, and now they are not coming. 

Julius. — Considering the state of the atmosphere in- 
doors as well as out, it is to be hoped they’ll stay away. 

Madge. — You are disposed to be witty. Well, is 
your negro never going to serve the dinner ? 

Julius. — Are you hungry ? It’s only five o’clock. 

Madge. — \Ringingl\ Six o’clock. 

Julius. — Five. Look at my watch for yourself. 

Madge. — Your watch is slow. 

[ The hall clock strikes Jivel\ 

Julius. — Do you hear? Five. 

Madge. — Oh, I did not count. 

Julius. — Of course not. You never do. 

Madge. — Well, is the soup never coming? 

Julius. — What’s your hurry ? You don’t like mock 
turtle soup. 

Madge. — Listen to that! I make my husband’s 


MOCK TURTLE SOUP. 33 

favorite soup, and he never ceases to scald me with it. 
Julius, you provoke me. 

Julius. — And your good-humor provokes me. 

Madge. — Truly, I ought to be in a good humor. 
For an hour you have been trying to quarrel with me. 
/ulius.—l ? I have been trying to quarrel — 

[EnteV Lafayette, with soup tureen.'] 

I.afayette. — Here’s de soup, mock turtle soup, 
Marse Mathews. 

Julius. — It comes at the right time. Behold, madam, 
how I treat my favorite soup. 

\JIe hurls tureen through open zvindowl] 

Madg£. — Julius, are you crazy? 

{^Hall bell rings. Exit LAFAYETTE.] 

The Vanes! Julius, what shall we say? Are you 
sure it is not six o’clock? Am I fit to be seen ? Why, 
what’s the matter, Julius? Cheer up, dear. The 
Vanes will think we have been quarrelling. 

{Enter L., Mr. and Mrs. Vane.] 

Mrs. Vane. — My darling Madge ! 

Madge. — Dearest Clara ! We had reluctantly given 
you up ! How sweet of you to come when the weather 
looks so threatening. And so prompt ! 



34 MORTAL LIPS. 

Mrs. Vane . — Are we really early? We threw off 
our wraps in the hall, because I feared it was late. 

Lafayette. — Yes, Miss, I hung de lady’s cloak on de 
banistrade. 


Madge . — Very good. Serve dinner immediately, 
Lafayette. Tell Mary to send up the soup. 

Lafayette . — De soup’s done gone, miss. 

Madge . — I quite forgot. Clara, you will overlook it. i 
A sad accident has happened to the soup. Will you . 




MOCK TURTLE SOUP. 35 

sit here, dearest, next to Julius? How well that 
lovely gown becomes you ! 

Mr. Vane . — Under the weather, Mathews? You 
seem blue. 

Mrs. Vane . — Perhaps he won’t overlook the soup. 
Husbands are not so generous as old school friends, 
are they, Madge ? 

Madge.— Julius’ favorite — mock turtle soup. 
Jnliiis . — My favorite ! Mock turtle ! I hate the 
very name of it. 

[Act Drop.] 



THE MIDDLE-SIZED HOUSE 

ON 

IRVING PLACE. 


The family and their guests have been already introduced 
the readers. 


THE MINIATURE. 


THE MINIATURE. 


Act First. — Passes in Mrs. Mathews’ sitting-room. At back is 
book-case where Julius sits reading. Madge and Mr. Solder 
sit near a small table. 

Madge. — Lost ! Oh, you can’t mean — 

Phil. — Yes, the miniature. I’m the most unhappy 
of men, 

Jtiliiis. — {Looking np.\ What’s that you say, 
Phil ? 

Phil . — A speech from the theatre. {Loiver.'\ Can 
he hear ? 

Madge . — Speak in that tone and go on. You have 
lost it ! what shall I do ? 

Phd . — You cannot feel worse than I, Mrs. Mathews. 


38 


MORTAL LIPS. 


To think of losing the miniature you put in my hands 
for safekeeping! If I could get one painted in time! 

Madge . — Too late! His birthday is to-morrow. I 
must give him something else. But tell me how it 
happened — there, Fm confident it was not your 
fault. 

Phil . — Are you sure Julius won’t hear? My dis- 
comfiture would please him too much. 

Madge . — He is deep in his book. Go on : was it 
stolen ? 

Phil. — Woman’s quick wit ! Yes, exactly. Day 
before yesterday I was crossing Broadway in front 
of the Herald building. A crowd of men pushed in 
three directions. Just as I leapt upon the curb I 
felt a twitch at my watch-chain, and, looking down the 
same instant, I saw the chain dangling. The minia- 
ture was gone. 

Madge . — Oh ! oh ! 

Phil. — Yes, call me names. I shall feel better if you 
abuse me. For a moment I stood petrified ; then I 
darted back into the crowd, but it was a new one 
already. The men who had jostled me had melted 
away in every direction. 

Madge . — And the thief among them ! I wonder 
what he looks like! He has my picture. 


THE MINIATURE. 


39 

Phil . — Most respectable-looking. No one would 
dream he was a thief. 

Madge . — You saw him ? You followed him ? 

Phil. — ril explain. Furious at the thought of your 
disappointment and my misfortune I determined to 
search till I discovered the wretch, not realizing the 
hopelessness of it, and neglecting everything else. I 
started to wander up and down Broadway and along 
the cross streets, scrutinizing every person for the 
man I had never seen. Crazy, wasn’t it? But Fate 
played into my hands. 

Madge . — And you recovered the miniature — all 
this has been only to frighten me ! Well, I won’t ask 
you to deliver it up yet; I’ll trust you one day 
longer. 

Phil . — How gladly I would give it back now if it 
were in my hands ! But the strangest part of the 
story is to come. All that afternoon I went about 
looking — looking, as I’ve told you, but vainly, and 
when dinner-time came I went home with a heavy 
heart. Next morning — yesterday — I set out again, 
but on a different lay; I went to the pawnbrokers. 
All denied having seen the locket, but on stepping 
out of a shop in the neighborhood of Franklin Street 
a man passed me — a short, stout man, well but plainly 


40 


MORTAL LIPS. 


dressed, who wore on his watch-chain my — your 
miniature. 

Madge . — Could you be sure ? 

Phil . — I asked myself the question as he walked 
by and answered in the affirmative. I couldn’t be 
mistaken. The case of the miniature is so unique, 
so original in design — after your own drawing — that 
I knew it was your’s as confidently as if I had seen 
your portrait inside. 

Madge . — The wretch of course removed that ! 
What did you do? 

Phil . — I followed him. He entered the Tribune 
building, and I stood by the elevator till he de- 
scended. He called at a number of places, I waiting 
outside in each instance, nervous with anxiety lest 
he should elude me by a different exit. At last he 
took a Fourth Avenue car for up-town : 1 sat down 
opposite him, my eyes riveted on the miniature. He 
rode to Nineteenth Street and then walked east two 
blocks. He walked quickly for a heavy man ; twice 
I nearly lost sight of him, and not daring to risk a 
third chance I seized him boldly by the button-hole 
and accused him of his crime. 

Madge. — Oh, Mr. Solder, how brave you are ! 
What did he say ? 


THE MINIATURE. 4 1 

Phil . — He frowned with well simulated innocence. 
“Are you mad?” said he. “ Annoy me further and 
ril hand you over to the police.” That nettled me, 
and I proceeded to do what he had only threatened. 

Madge . — Arrest him ? 

Phil. — Yes ; I called a bobby, who carried us both to 
a police-station. The inspector, who was sitting at a 
table when we entered, arose and shook hands with 
the thief. How is that for a commentary on our city 
police? Having listened with polite attention to 
what my captured villain had to relate, the inspector 
turned to me. “ Are you up here again ? ” said he ; 
“ what new game are you giving us now?” “ I only 
want my own,” I replied, but no longer hopeful after 
what I had seen. “ That locket was snatched off my 
watch-chain yesterday. It is mine ! ” 

Madge . — But it isn’t yours, Mr. Solder. 

Phil . — I could not say it was yours, Mrs. Mathews. 
The thief stared me up and down, declaring that he 
had bought the trinket. On my demanding to know 
where and when, he obstinately refused to answer, 
or to open the case to expose the portrait inside. 
In all these denials he was supported by the inspector, 
who kept asking what would happen next. Then the 
rascal shook hands with the officer and made off. 


42 MORTAL LIPS. 

while I was detained for further examination. How- 
ever, as the inspector could not remember what my 
last offence had been, he contented himself by warn- 
ing me not to come up again, and permitted me to 
go — thankful that I had not been imprisoned or fined 
for trying to recover my own. 

Madge. — My own, you mean. 

Phil. — Pardon — yes ; but I heartily wish it had been 
my property, Mrs. Mathews. In that case I should 
not mind half so much. 

Madge. — Don’t blame yourself ; I hold you blame- 
less ; and you have had too much trouble over the 
miniature as it is. Let’s talk no more about it, but 
consult on a gift for Julius. What shall I give him ? 
Something simple, for [tearfully], I spent all my 
money on that miniature. 

Phil. — Mrs. Mathews, pardon me ; but you will 
certainly — it would be very ungenerous of you not to. 
Of course I may return what I have lost. 

Madge. — [Laughing.] Yes, when you prove to me 
that you did lose it. Cheer up, Mr. Solder ; the 
unfortunate miniature is not your fault but Julius’ 
misfortune. 

Phil . — If you would let me be your creditor that 
would complete the cure this confession began. 


THE MINI A TUEE. 


43 


Madge . — Poor fellow! not another word. Julius 
need never know — 



Phil . — How can I make it up to Julius? To rob 
him of his — 

Madge. — Hush! — Julius! 


44 


MORTAL LIPS. 


Julius. — {Tossing book aside and advancingi] I can’t 
find it anywhere. 

Madge. — What have you lost ? 

Phil. — {Sotto vocel\ Fie, Mrs. Mathews! 

Julius. — A favorite quotation. Why are you stand- 
ing up, Phil? Going? 

Phil. — Yes, I’m off. Good-night, Mrs. Mathews. 

Madge. — Must you go ? It is not late. Shall we 
see you to-morrow at the Vanes? 

Jidius. — Phil can’t disappoint a party given in my 
honor. Hold on, old man ; I’ll walk to the station 
with you. By-bye, Madge. 

{Exeunt JULIUS a7id Phil.] 

Madge. — Good-bye. What shall I give Julius to- 
morrow? If I could sit up to-night I might finish 
that slumber robe, but Julius hates embroidered 
things. How dreadful it is ! I could cry ! But I’ll 
never tell him another man has my miniature. 


ACT II. 

Scene. — The middle-sized house in Irving Place. 

Mrs. Vane. — My young lady has disappointed me, 
and we shall be five at table. Oughtn’t we to have 
asked more people on your birthday, Julius ? 


THE MINIATURE. 


45 


Jjilius . — If you want to make me older than I am ; 
old men have a swarm of friends. 



Madge . — Rich old men. 

Mrs. Vane . — Madge grows cynical. Isn’t this Mr. 


46 


MORTAL LIPS. 


Solder of yours something of an original ? Will he 
certainly come ? 

Madge. — Provided he hasn’t mislaid the address 
or accepted two or three other invitations for this 
evening, he will be here. Yes, Clara-, he is as odd as 
his name. 

Mr. Vane. — Did you find him amusing, my dear ? 

Mrs. Vane. — {Aside to Madge.] I dare not say 
‘Yes!’ {AloiidT^ You must form your own opinion, 
Charles. Now, Madge, let us leave the gentlemen to 
entertain each other while we call on little Clara. 
This is her bed-time, when she receives her adorers 
like a belle marquise of the past. 

Madge. — They received on getting up. 

Mrs. Vane. — You are right, but baby is better 
trained. Just for a little while, gentlemen. 

{Exeunt ladies.'] 

Mr. Vane. — Young Mr. Solder is a tried friend of 
yours, I presume, Mathews ? 

Julius. — If ten or more years of unbroken friendship 
try a man, yes. 

Mr. Vane. — Have you known him so long? I un- 
derstood Mrs. Mathews to say her acquaintance with 
him dated from this winter. 


THE MINIATURE. 


47 


Julius. — Hers, yes. But Phil and I were college 
chums. He was not at our wedding because I had 



lost his address. But when I met him again we 
began where we left off. 


48 


MORTAL LIPS. 


Mr. Vane. — Always a difficult thing, and sometimes 
dangerous. Is he a ladies’ man ? 

Julius. — Solder is the sort of man who makes 
friends with most women and falls in love with 
none. 

Mr. Vane. — I know the species, and I don’t trust 
’em. You know his friends, of course; are they like 
him ? 

Julius. — Who? — oh! I understand. Nobody is like 
Phil Solder; he is, as you heard, an original; at once^ 
light-hearted and serious ; full of fun and tender as a 
child. He likes everybody, but at the same time he 
has an unerring instinct for picking out the true people 
to trust. 

Mr. Vane. — Do you know his friends? He intro- 
duces them to your house? 

Julius . — Once or twice he has brought up a friend 
for a game of cards. 

Mr. Vane. — Um — 

Julius. — Pardon me for asking what you mean by 
<‘um?” 

Mr. Vane. — Did I say “ um ? ” 

Julius. — Y es. 

Mr. Vane. — Well, I don’t know. 

Julius. — Somebody has been speaking against Phil 


THE MINIATURE. 49 

Solder, and you regret having asked him here. I tell 
you the story is false before I hear it. 

Mr. Vane. — My dear Mathews, I have not heard a 
word detrimental to your friend, whom I accept at 
your valuation. But I am older than you, I think. 

Jnliiis. — Of course you are, by many years. 

Mr. Vane. — Um! — any advantage in years gives me 
an excuse to advise you. The fact is. I’ve something 
unpleasant to say. 

Julius. — Out with it. 

Mr. Vane. — It may be nothing — or a mistake, — her 
jest, perhaps. 

Julius. — Whose jest ? Say what you mean. 

Mr. Vane. — That is the way to look at it — a philo- 
pena present; or if that’s old-fashioned, a bet at 
cards. 

Julius. — What are you talking about ? Do you 
refer to Madge? 

Mr. Vane. — Now, be calm ; I didn’t mean to let it 
out just yet. Your word — no scene at dinner ! 

Julius. — Scene at dinner ! What is behind such an 
ominous introduction? 

Mr. Vane. — {Taking miniature Jrom his pocket i\ 
This. 

Jtilius. — This locket ? Why should I make a scene 


50 MORTAL LIPS. 

at dinner about this trinket? You see I hold it in my 
hand quite calmly. 

Mr. Vane. — Press the spring. 

Julius. — {Seeing portrait l\ Madge ! 

Mr. Vane. — Just so. 

Julius. — Ah, I see it all ! You make me a birthday 
gift, and such a gift ! My dear Vane, this quite over- 
powers me. 

Mr. Vane. — Stop, sir. You are making a mis- 
take. 

Jtilius. — Eh, what the deuce ? 

Mr. Vane . — Leave the locket open for a while. I 
have something to say to you. This is hardly the 
time or place, but it had better be said now ; there’s 
danger in delay. You know how I dread to see dis- 
sension enter a happy home. 

Julius . — Well, well, you’re not the only husband 
who dislikes quarrelling. 

Mr. Vane. — But there are two sides to the question: 
both husband and wife may be at fault. I speak of a 
young married couple — 

Julius .— ? 

Mr. Vane. — Something may be said in excuse of a 
wife whose husband is careless enough to bring his 
friends into the family circle and give them the privi- 


THE MINIATURE. 


51 


leges of intimacy. I contend it is a mistake to widen 
the family hearth : before it there is only room for 
two. 

Julius. — It was not your intention to read me this 
domestic homily. Come to the point. 

Mr, Vane. — In a moment. I’m not acquainted with 
your friend Solder, but of him or of one of his com- 
rades you stand in serious danger. 

Julius. — Of what nature? 

Mr. Vane. — Yes — among them there is one who has 
profited by Mrs. Mathews’ ignorance of the world 
to lead her into a mistake, venial but deplorable. 

Julius. — It strikes me that in talking like this you 
take undue advantage of your position as my host. 

Mr, Vane. — That’s all that prevents me from 
severely censuring your indifference. I’ve proved my 
real friendship: at considerable personal annoyance 
I’ve stopped the business. It ended as soon as I 
turned over to you the proof. 

Julius. — The proof ? What proof ? 

Mr. Vane. — It’s in your hand — the miniature. 

Julius. — Take care how you trifle with me. 

Mr. Vane. — I hate to shatter your faith, but hear 
how I came into possession of that locket. 

Julius. — Go on ; you can’t stop now. 



7'HE MIN I A TURK. 


53 


Mr. Vane. — First, I must explain that I sometimes 
pick up a bargain at the pawnbrokers, and a day or 
two ago I dropped into Uncle Billy’s Place on Park 
Row. He said he had a choice bit to show me, and 
related how he took it in. A young man had offered 
it for sale the day before, but as Uncle Billy declined 
to buy he pledged it. Soon after he had hurried 
away, the ticket given him was found under the 
counter, torn to bits. The evidence pointed to this as 
stolen property. Of course I was debarred from pur- 
chasing, but the piece being of curious workmanship I 
looked it over carefully. It was a locket. I touched 
the spring — in short, that is the very locket, and that 
is the face I saw. 

Julius . — The face of my wife. 

Mr. Vane . — I thought you had been robbed, so I 
risked buying the trinket, fastened it to my watch- 
chain, and started for your office to mystify you. 
Business drove the matter from my mind and I turned 
home with the charm still at my vest. 

Julius . — Pshaw ! Is that all your mystery ? 

Mr. Vane. — No, there’s more. When I left the car 
to walk across to my house a young man accosted me 
and demanded the return of his property — this minia- 


ture. 


54 


MORTAL LIPS. 


Julius. — Impossible ! 

Mr. Vane. — I thought you would see it was time 
to act. The stranger’s audacity staggered me. I 
refused, and he called a policeman, who walked us 
both to the station. On the way I hatched my plan : 

I had no doubt this stranger was telling the truth ; 
nevertheless, I determined not to yield up your wife’s | 
portrait without a struggle. Good fortune had it that ; 
the inspector on duty was an acquaintance of mine. i 
He discharged me almost without an explanation. 

I hurried home with my mysterious property. \ 

Julius. — And the stranger ? j 

Mr. Vane. — Ha, ha I the inspector retained him. A j 
good joke, eh, Mathews? j 

Julius. — Excellent! But a better one is that you i 

should think your proof so convincing. It would take | 

the contents of all the jewelers’ shops in New York | 

to make me doubt my wife — even of folly. Pshaw 1 ; 

Circumstantial evidence. Aren’t you lawyer enough 
to know circumstantial evidence has one peculiarity: 
it can be explained away? 

Mr. Vane. — Is it possible? After what I’ve reluc- 
tantly told you ? I 

Julius. — Your judgment is mistaken ; my heart is ; 
not. I forgive you. Vane; older men than you might . 




56 


MORTAL LIPS. 


believe these proofs indestructible. I have your 
story ; I have the miniature, and we shall see. 

Mr. Vane . — But not here ; not now. Remember 
where we are — your promise. Give me the minia- 
ture. 

Julius. — And accuse Madge? No, no! \He at- 
taches the locket to his watch chainl\ I remain your ^ 

guest only on condition of wearing your proof 
here. 

{Enter Madge and Mrs. Vane. They stand near the 
door^ concluding a conversation.^ 

Mrs. Vane. — Yes, Mr. Vane is quite too ready to 
believe all he hears ; that is his single real fault. 

Madge . — All men are so, Clara dear — finding fault 
with their wives in little things ; but if another should 
dare they will defend them as you would defend baby, 
Clara. I’m sure it is so with Julius. 

{Enter servant ayid Philip.] 

Servant. — Mr. Solder. And dinner is served, 
ma’am. 

Phil. — I hope I’m not late, Mrs. Vane; I didn’t want 
to disgrace my sponsors. Mrs. Mathews, I’ve been 
busy — you know what about, and I’ve a clue. 


THE MINI A TURE, 


57 


Mrs, Vane, — In excellent time; first let me intro- 
duce my husband. Mr. Solder, Charles — Mr. Vane, 
Mr. Solder. 

Mr, Vane, — \Aside7)^ The stranger ! 

Phil.— [Aside,'] As I’m a sinner, the thief ! 

Madge. — Why, you two have met before. Julius, I 
see by your smile that you knew it. Why didn’t you 
tell me ? 

Julius. — I suspected it. 

Madge. — What locket have you on your guard, 
Julius? Is it — it is! Mr. Solder, look — my minia- 
ture ! 

Phil. — I’m floored. No, I’ve a clue — Mr. Vane? 

Julius.— 

Madge. — My miniature! my present to Julius! 
where did Mr. Vane find it ? 

Julius. — A long story, Madge, and a mysterious one. 
Eh, Vane? 

Mrs. Vane. — Then you must tell it at table. Will 
you come, Mr. Mathews? Charles? 

[Curtain.] 


THE BIG HOUSE 

ON 

MADISON AVENUE. 


Mrs. Adae, . 
Clara Adae, 
George Adae, 
Adele Adae, 
Joanna, . 

Phil Solder, 


. . a widow. 

. . her daughter. 

. . her son. 

. . . his wife. 

the maid. 
. a guest of the house. 


A GUNPOWDER PLOT; 
CHESTNUTS. 

THE COMPROMISING LETTERS. 



A GUNPOWDER PLOT. 


Scene. — The big house in Madison Avenue: the library. George 
seated with newspaper and cigarette. Enter his wife. 

Adele , — Are you alone, George? Joanna told me 
Clara was with you. 

George . — She ran upstairs a minute ago with a let- 
ter which the postman brought her. I imagine its 
contents are of an exciting nature. Listen to her! 
{Several loud thu7nps are heard above.'] She’ll be 
through in a minute ! 

Adele . — Is she jumping the rope ? She is not writing, 
certainly. What is she doing now in a literary way ? 

George. — Heavens ! Adele, don’t ask me. I don’t 
know anything about it, but she is scribbling away 
still, I believe. 


59 


6o 


MORTAL LIPS. 


A dele. — George, I think we should show more inter- 
est in her work, more sympathy with her hopes. 

George. — Perhaps. If I laugh at her it is for her 
own good. 

Adele. — But you know Clara has talent. 

George. — Yes, I will say I think Clara is bright, but I 
fear she is on the wrong track with her blood-curdling 
tales of midnight murder and hair-breadth escapes. 

Adele. — Don’t tell her so ; here’s Clara now. 

[Enter Clara. She carries herself very erects and 
moves with a measured and stately step.'] 

Clara. — How pleased I am to find you both here at 
this time! George, embrace your sister. 

George. — I don’t mind. [He kisses herl\ What’s up, 
Clara? Your eyes are shining, your cheeks flushed; 
you are radiant, magnificent ! Did you have good 
news in that letter? Has Uncle Joshua died and 
made you his heiress? What did he leave me? 

Clara. — Hush, George, how can you talk like that ? 
Yes: I’ve had news, great news, brother. 

George. — What is it ? 

Clara. — George, I’m an authoress. 

George. — Is that all ? Did somebody have to write 
and tell you that? Why have you been inking your 


A GUNFOWBEl! PLOT. 


6 


fingers and spotting your gowns for the last year if 
you weren’t an authoress, or trying to be one ? 

Clara. — Aye, trying. Now I am successful. 



A dele. — Oh, Clara, dear, I am so glad! 

George . — I congratulate you, sis ; let’s hear about it. 
Clara . — I have had a story accepted by Analyst^ 
and they have written me a charming letter — see. 


62 


MORTAL LIPS. 


Adele. — Read it aloud please, George. 

George. — Clara, confess that you’ve been leaping 
over the furniture in ,a frenzy of joy. 

Clara. — I will do nothing of the kind. 

George. — Jumping up and down then. 

Clara. — Perhaps I moved around somewhat livelier 
than usual, or even danced a little. When you read 
that letter you will pardon a little enthusiasm. 

George. — {Examining letter l\ “To Miss Clara 

Adams.” Is that the way you sign yourself now? 

Clara. — Oh, that’s a mistake. Read it, George ; you 
open it as though it was a tailor’s bill. 

George. — Not at all. In that case I shouldn’t open 
it. Well, here goes. 

“ Dear Madam : — It is with genuine pleasure that 
we write to inform you of the acceptance of your Mss., 
as it is some time since a story has come to us so orig- 
inal in conception and so charming in style. It will 
appear in an early issue of the Analyst, and we hope 
to have other and many contributions from your pen. 

“ Respectfully yours, 

“ The Editors.” 

Well, I say that is splendid ! Why, I had no idea you 
had it in you, Clare ! 


A GUNPOWDER PLOT. 63 

A dele. — Oh, I knew it. I always said she would be 
famous ! 

George. — What is the story called ? 

Clara, — “ Irene’s Vow.” 

George. — “ Irene’s Vow ! ” What is it like ? 

Clara. — You have heard it, and — don’t you remem- 
ber? — you didn’t like it. Irene’s two brothers have 
been mysteriously murdered. She swears to avenge 
their death, then discovers it is her lover who has 
killed them. They were - smugglers, and it was in the 
performance of his duty as an officer that he did so. 
But it is too late. Irene blows up with gunpowder 
the building in which he is, although she destroys 
herself in doing so. 

Adele. — Oh, it makes me shudder ! 

George. — Clare, you don’t mean to say that the story 
you read me last winter, when I made you so furious 
by ha-ha-ing right out when I couldn’t hold in any 
longer, has been accepted by the Analyst! 

Clara. — I do say that very thing 

George. — And they refer to that story when they 
express their admiration of its originality, charming 
style, etc ? 

Clara. — I have sent them “ Irene’s Vow ’’and no 
other. 


64 


MORTAL LIPS. 


George . — You are not joking, and you did not offer 
that gory tale as a burlesque ? 

Clara . — Most certainly not. 

George. — Well, if I may be pardoned such an 
expression in the presence of a rising young author, I 
am completely flabbergasted. 

Adele. — Oh, husband ! 

Clara . — I suppose, because my story does not fol- 
low in the old lines which conventionality has laid 
down and the majority of readers have received as 
correct, you are surprised that it should be accepted 
by a magazine of prominence, are you ? 

George . — That is a very delicate way of describing 
my state of mind. 

Clara. — [Earnestly.^ I tell you, George, there has 
been a reaction from the methods which have so long 
been popular. The school of Howells and James is a 
delightful one, I admit, but it has had its day. The 
microscopic inspection of the brain cells — the delicate 
vivisection of the heart — is a fascinating study, but it 
is futile and at last wearisome. What people want is 
the living, palpitating flesh, and the rich, warm blood 
that flows through it ! 

George . — And Miss Clare Adae, with dagger and 


A GUNFOWDER PLOT. 65 

gunpowder, is going to lay open the flesh, and let the 
rich, warm blood flow galore. Bravo, Clare ! 

Clara. Because “Irene’s Vow” is tragic, because 
the characters all die, you think it sensational — ludi- 
crous. In the sublimest production of an immortal 
genius there are four persons killed by poison, two are 
stabbed, the seventh commits suicide, and a ghost 
walks through all, yet who thinks of calling “ Ham- 
let ” sensational ? — who would dare to call it ridicu- 
lous ? 

George . — And if Shakespeare can end a play leaving 
seven dead bodies to be carried out. Miss Adae claims 
the humble privilege of slaughtering only four. Is 
that the idea? 

Clara . — That is exactly my position, if you choos*e 
to express it in those words. 

George. — Well, Clara, your arguments are unanswer- 
able ; but I can’t understand yet how you managed 
to work that story off. 

Clara . — Suppose you give up trying, and listen to 
my plans. To tell the truth, I don’t think ‘‘Irene’s 
Vow ” is my best work by any means, and I only sent 
it to the Analyst because it had been every place else. 
Now I am going to begin work in earnest. In the first 
place I want you to see at once about getting me a 
S 


66 


MORTAL LIPS. 


large desk : then I shall want a blank-book, in which 
I shall keep a record of everything I write — ''such 
and such a story offered such a place,” and opposite 



I shall write the date of its acceptance and then of its 
publication. 

George . — Would there be a column for the rejec- 
tions? 

Clara. — \With dignity . I trust there will be no 
need of such a thing now. I intend to work in a busi- 


A GUNPOWDER PLOT. 6 / 

ness-like way. I shall write from nine to one each 
morning. Anthony Trollope worked a certain num- 
ber of hours every day with machine-like regularity. 
Anthony Trollope was not a great novelist, but he 
was a successful one, and I shall not despise to learn 
from him. 

George . — It strikes me, Adele, that our authoress is 
quite a liberal-minded young person. What do you 
think 

Adele. — Indeed, Clara, he does not talk like this 
behind your back ; you should have heard him prais- 
ing you before you came down. 

Clara . — Then I shall want a type-writer. 

George . — A type-writer ! 

Clara. — Yes, and an amanuensis — an operator. I 
compose best when I am like this. [She rises and 
walks up and down.'] Then the thoughts come quick 
and fast — too fast for me to seize and transfix them 
with my pen, I must have an assistant. Adele, if you 
will learn to use the type-writer you may help me. 

Adele. — Oh, I should love to if I could, Clara. 

Clara . — But no. It would not do, I fear. You are 
in the family. We should have much to say to one 
another. . No, Adele, it would be pleasant, but even 
the ties of relationship must yield to the demands of 


68 


MORTAL LIPS. 


my work. The woman who acts as my amanuensis 
must sit dumb — inanimate ; she will be part of the 
furniture of the room ; when she speaks it must be 
only when necessity compels her to answer to my 
dictation. 

George . — I congratulate you on losing the job, 
Adele. If I were a young woman seeking employ- 
ment, I would rather rattle dishes than the keys of 
Clary’s type-writer. 

Clara. — George, I wish to ask you in all serious- 
ness never to speak of me by that name again. In 
the first place it is ridiculous to call a woman of my 
size “ Clary.’ C In the next place it is undignified 
considering my — my — 

George . — Position as the coming authoress? You 
are right, my sister. ‘‘ Clary Adae’s Penny Dreadful.” 
That doesn’t sound at all well. I have even thought 
since you have grown to be such a statuesque young 
woman that the name of Clara was a misnomer. I 
used to think you should have been called Diana, or 
Galatea, but in the light of recent developments I 
think Lucretia or Messalina would be better. 

Clara . — Do you know that I have been seriously 
thinking of assuming a nom de plume ? 

George . — Why not say a nom de guerre ? 


A GUNPOWDER PLOT. 


69 


Adele . — What name would you take ? 

Clara . — I should take a man’s name. Then I could 
wield a fearless and trenchant pen. I should never 
stop then to think “ What would Mrs. Pomeroy 
say? ” or, “ How would the people of our church take 
this?” as I’m ashamed to say I have done. The 
name of George has been assumed by two famous 
women, why should not I be the third? Let me 
see? George — George Dare. How does “George 
Dare ” sound ? 

George . — Very expressive, but hadn’t you better sit 
down, Mr. Dare? 

Clara. — [Sitting beside Adele.] On the other hand, 
in preserving one’s identity, there’s the charm of seeing 
one’s name in print coupled with praise. Fancy read- 
ing something like this: “A story in the last num- 
ber of the Analyst has created a great sensation 
among literary people. The boldness of outline, the 
warmth of color, bespeak a master hand.” Then, 
“ The young authoress. Miss Clara Adae, is not yet 
twenty then would follow a description of my per- 
sonal appearance, perhaps my tastes and habits, my 
fondness for horseback-riding and for walking. I 
should be pointed out on the street, at the theatre, 
every place. Oh, Adele, darling, isn’t it grand, glori- 


70 


MORTAL LIPS. 


ous ? I am just wild with delight and can’t conceal 
it any longer. \She throws her arms around Adele.] 
George. — Oh, I say, Mr. George Dare, I object to 



your hugging my wife right before me. And, excuse 
me, Mr. Dare, but your back hair is coming down, 
and that last squeeze ripped the sleeve of your dress. 
Suppose somebody should come in? \The door bell 
rmgsl\ There’s somebody now. 


A GUNPOWDER PLOT. 7 1 

Clara. — {Hastily arranging her hair.'] Adele, I can 
see no one at all to-day. 

Adele. — {Listening.'] I think it is the postman. 

{Enter JOANNA.] 

Joanna. — A letter and a package for you, Miss, and 
here is a receipt for you to sign. 

Clara. — {Opening letter l\ Will you sign it, George ? 
It is from the Analyst, 

{Exit Joanna.] 

[Clara reads a fezv lines in silence^ then turns very 
pale^ and puts her hand to her head as though be- 
wilderedl] 

I don’t understand this letter ; there seems to be 
something wrong. Listen — George, Adele. {Readsl] 

“Miss Clara Adae: 

'‘'‘Dear Madame: — We have just discovered a most 
annoying mistake, made yesterday by one of our 
employees. A letter intended for Miss Clara Adams, 
was sent to you last night, and a communication 
respectfully declining your Mss. entitled “ Irene’s 
Vow’' was sent to Miss Adams. The similarity of 
names caused the confusion of the letters, which is 
none the less mortifying and is without precedent in 
the history of the magazine. So deeply do we feel it 


72 


MORTAL LIPS. 


that we have discharged the man who made the mis- 
take, but that, we fear, will be small satisfaction to 
you. We return ‘‘ Irene’s Vow ” with this — ” 



Oh, George, can it be ? Do they mean they are not 
going to print it ? 

George . — They can’t mean anything else. What an 
outrageous blunder! 

Clara. — Oh, and my hopes, my plans, my beautiful 
visions ! Oh, I shall never write another line. I can 


A GUNPOWDER PLOT. 


73 

never hold up my head again. Oh — oh — oh-h-h ! 
[S/ie bursts into tearsi\ 

Adele. — Clara, dear; Clara, don’t. I believe in you 
just as much as ever. And so does George, don’t 
you George ? 

George. — \Takmg his sister in his arms?^ More than 
ever. Come, Clare, be a brave girl ; it’s a hard blow, I 
know. 

Clara. — Oh, George, I’ve been talking like an idiot, 
oh, oh — 

George. — Don’t cry, Clare, you make me feel like a 
brute after the way I’ve been laughing at you. Only 
say tlie word, Clare, and I’ll go down there and crack 
every neck in the Analyst office. {Savagely l\ I am 
glad they had the decency to discharge that dolt. 

Clara. — Oh, yes, they discharged the clerk — the poor 
clerk! Isn’t that a joke? Ah, it’s capital! Ha — ha 
— ha — ha — ha ! {She laughs violently l\ 

Adele. — Oh, George! I believe Clara is going to 
have hysterics ! Oh-h ! 

George. — Stop that Adele, at once ! Do you want 
me to begin to blubber too ? Run for the camphor — 
no, ring for Joanna, while I hold her. 

Adele. — Here is my vinaigrette. Poor dear! she is 
growing calmer now. 


74 


MORTAL LIFS. 


George. — That’s right: now fan her while I read 
that letter for myself. \He picks up letter from the 
foor.'] This isn’t all of it. ‘ There must be another 
sheet somewhere ; you are sitting on it, Adele ; that’s 
it. \^He scans the letter l\ Hello ! this is not half 
bad. Open your eyes, Clary, and listen to this : 

“We return ‘Irene’s Vow’ with this, as it would 
be impossible to print a story of its nature in the 
Analyst. We are anxious, however, to atone, as 
far as is within our power, for this unfortunate error. 
There are occasional touches in your story — bits of 
description and character-drawing — which lead us to 
believe that you are capable of better work. We 
should be pleased to meet you personally, or to enter 
into correspondence with you, with the view of advis- 
ing you in the matter of preparing something which 
we could accept and publish. 

“ Sincerely yours, 

“The Editors.” 

What do you say to that, Mr. Dare ? 

Clara. — George! You are not deceiving me? Let 
me read it with my own eyes. {Seizes letter l\ Yes, 
word for word. Oh, what a relief ! 

Adele. — Oh, you will try, won’t you, Clara? 

Clara. — Try! Yes, and I’ll do too, if I have any 
brains at all. 


A GUNPOWDER PLOT. 


75 


George . — Count on my assistance, Clara, if you need 
it, and my advice. Let me begin by rolling out every 
barrel of gunpowder in your study, and confiscating 
all your weapons. 

Clara. — George, I really believe I can please them 
yet. I was a little bit ashamed of poor Irene, to tell 
the truth, and no doubt it is all for the best. I have a 
beautiful story in my head, and I’m going upstairs at 
once to write a letter to the editor of the Analyst. 
But oh, George ! how I wonder who Clara Adams is ? 


CHESTNUTS. 


ACT I. 

Scene I. passes in the room of George and Adele, who have been 
married a year. 

George. — If you will not go down shall I have your 
coffee sent up here ? 

Adele. — No, thank you. 

George. — But you must take something. 

Adele. — I don’t care for anything. 

George. — What is the matter, Adele ? 

Adele. — Nothing. I wi.sh I were dead. 

George. — You always say that after a little unpleas- 
antness. For my part I wish I were dead also. 

Adele. — Oh, then I shouldn’t wish I were dead. 
George. — Adele, do you know what you’re saying? 
Are you tired of me ? 

Adele. — No, I think not. 

George. — Adele, don’t you love me? 

76 


CHESTNUTS. 


77 


Adele, — Am I not your wife ? 

George. — Adele, do you love me ? 

Adele. — Can I forget? You married me — a poor 
girl : why, I should love you if only for gratitude ! 

George. — Gratitude hasn’t even a friend. Confess 
that you are weary of seeing me : I love you too con- 
stantly. By the way, I have something to propose. 

Adele.— SNhdit ? 

George. — That we begin our courtship over again. 

Adele. — Impossible. 

George. — Would it displease you ? 

Adele. — Will you take a new name ? Foolish boy ! 
that would make me unfaithful. Suppose I could 
think of you as I did before we were married ? 

George. — You admit there has been a change ? 

Adele. — A change — yes — but — 

George. — I don’t blame you. Let’s speak frankly. 
A year ! that’s a long time. Between two Junes there 
is so much snow and ice it is not strange if some 
forms over the heart. But we will melt that. You 
shall be free again to love and to choose. For a 
month to come I will not be your husband but your 
adorer, to take or to leave. 

Adele. — You will end by making me angry. Have 
I changed ? or perhaps it is you who have changed ; 


78 


MORTAL LIPS. 


perhaps it is you who wish a month of freedom. Oh, 
if you do! Take care! you may go too far. You 
may give me my liberty so completely that I shall 
never be willing to resume my chains. Oh, George ! 
George ! you make me miserable. 

George, — Don’t cry. Of course I was only jesting — 



Adele, — Oh, leave me, George ! I wish to be 
unhappy alone. 

George. — Don’t send me away. Here on my knee, 
my pet — we’ll cry together. Why, Adele, my angel, 
did you believe what I said ? Did you think I wanted 
my freedom? I love you now as on the first day 
— my love, my life ! 

Adele . — How could you speak so? 

George . — How could you believe me ? 

Adele . — And you did not mean it, George ? 


CHESTNUTS. 


79 


George , — My heart ! Give it back to me by your 
lips. 


Scene II. — Mrs. Adae’s drawing-room, 

{^Discovers Miss Clara Adae and Mr. Phil Sol- 
der sitting near together 7\ 

Clara. — It seems strange to see you in the morning. 
I had almost forgotten how you look by daylight. 
After our brothers and their friends grow up they 
become shadows in the sun. When night falls and 
the gas is lighted they resume substance again. Isn’t 
it odd how little we know each other ? 

Phil. — But Clara — I mean, Miss Adae — the rule 
works both ways, We men rarely see you till dark ; 
the hour when stars come out. 

Clara. — Oh, how pretty ! Is it original ? 

Phil. — I don’t know ; I suppose so. 

Clara. — Then, I don’t. Men are always quoting 
poetry. I wonder why women never do. 

Phil. — Don’t they? 

Never. At least never aloud and never 

apropos. 

Phil. — It’s because women themselves are poems. 
Clara. — What has come over you this morning, Mr. 


8o 


MORTAL LIPS. 


Solder ? I mean, what new reverence for women has 
suddenly developed in you ? 

Phil . — I am not so sure it is new. I have always 



reverenced woman, and highly rated her value. 
Women are not in my eyes so many possible wives. 

Clara. — {With a change of toneI\ Aren’t they? 
Please define what you think of women and what 
you mean by their value. 


CHESTNUTS. 


Phil . — It goes with what I hinted of their original- 
ityo Women depreciate that : full many a capable 
woman in conversation only repeats what some man 
says, while she reserves her own thought. In litera- 
ture, also, she does almost the same thing. How 
many a powerful woman has feared to give forth what 
is in her except under a masculine pseudonym — 

Clara. — \Rising\\ I am glad to know you have such 
a high opinion of women. It explains many things ; 
but I must hear the rest another time. 

Phil . — Have I offended you ? I — I had no inten- 
tion to speak generally, but on a particular case. 

Clara . — I have applied it particularly. It is all very 
interesting, and you are delightfully frank. Now I 
must find Adele. We shop this morning, and I hear 
George coming in. I will leave you with him. Good- 
morning. 

{Exit Clara.] 

Phil . — At an unlucky time. What did she think I 
meant ? I am a fool. I came to tell her I love her, 
and I branch off into a tirade against women who sign 
themselves George or Charles. But why should Clara 
take it personally ? She doesn’t write, does she ? 

{Enter GEORGE.] 


6 





CHESTNUTS. 


83 

George .— very man I want to see. I came up 
to beg you to step into the office on your way out j 
but we can talk as well here—better, for we can’t be 
interrupted by a patient. But what’s the matter? 
You look like a patient yourself. 

Phil. Nothing. I say, Adae, does Miss Adae some- 
times write ? 

George.— Y or the magazines, you mean? 

Phil . — For anything. 

George. Yes, but it’s a secret. Have you never 
heard of George Dare ? You mustn’t give it away, 
nor something else I’m going to confide to you. By 
Jove, Phil, it’s like making you one of the family. 

Phil. — {Eagerly^ Yes, yes; just so. How would 
you like me to become one of the family ? 

George . — Well enough. As I was saying, I am 
about to give you a proof of my friendship by 
entrusting to you a secret which is very intimate. 
My wife no longer loves me. 

Phil . — My dear fellow ! 

George . — That is to say, she no longer loves me 
with the fervor of courtship. Oh, don’t pull so long 
a face. 

Phil . — You startled me. I’ll laugh if you like. 

George . — Keep neutral till you understand. For 


84 


MORTAL LIPS. 


some time Fve noticed in Adele fits of depression 
which, if I were not a physician and able to judge that 
she is well and strong, I should account for on the 
ground of ill-health. 

Phil . — Do you expect to keep on billing and coo- 
ing to the end of the chapter? There must be a 
quarrel now and then to prevent cloying. 

George . — Just what I’ve told myself, so IVe in- 
vented one or two, and she — 

/%//.— Well ? 

George . — She takes refuge in tears. By heavens, 
Phil, women are strange creatures. 

Phil. — \Sighingl\ So they are ! 

George . — It may be that, in the race for patients. 
I’ve left her too much alone. 

Phil. — That’s it ; devote yourself to her. 

George . — I say, do you think Adele just a little 
vain ? All beautiful women are, you know. Do you 
think she is a bit jealous of Clara’s admirers ? She 
makes herself agreeable when they call. 

Phil . — Never to me. Of course, she is friendly and 
all that — 

George. — Oh, you I Are you one of Clara’s ad- 
mirers ? Adele probably considers you as the friend 
of her husband, almost a member of the family. 


CHESTNUTS. 85 

Phil. — That’s it, George ; I wish to be one of the 
family. 

George. — All in good time. Yes, that’s it ; Adele is 
a little envious of Clara ; naturally, you know, and with- 
out meaning any harm. She is young ; her husband 
is much engaged, and she must have somebody to 
talk to. 

Phil. — I think you are mistaken. Pshaw ! you 
know it. 

George. — Why, no. And I don’t blame Adele. But 
I mean to win her over again ; T mean to make Adele 
love me as if I were not her husband. 

Phil. — You mean to recover what you have never 
lost ? 

George. — My dear boy, this is to be a comedy ; you 
must get into the spirit of it. Let me sketch the 
plot. Adele shall really make me jealous : she shall 
think she’s done wrong: she shall be unhappy and 
come to me for comfort and forgiveness. I will give 
her both, and we will spend our honeymoon over 
again. 

pjiil — You’d better drown yourself. 

George. — Why? It will end well. You shall play 
the supporting role. 

Phil.—\ ? 


86 


MORTAL LIPS. 


George. — Yes; so you see there is no danger. I can 
trust you, and you comprehend my motive. Adele 
shall love me as a young girl always loves her ideal : 
she must reflect me — merge herself in me — 



Phil . — I was just telling Clara — 

George . — My dear fellow, you must not tell Clara 
or anyone. This is our secret. 

Phil . — I wish to marry your sister. 

George . — All right. Wait till this is arranged. It 


CHESTNUTS. 


87 


is a serious matter with me ; until it’s settled I can 
think of nothing else. Clara is fond of you, I think, 
but she can spare you for a few days. 

Phil . — Then I will explain to her — 

George. — No, leave that to me. Clara and you 
mustn’t talk the matter over together. It must 
appear that you have broken with her. 

Phil . — If you were not Clara’s brother — 

George. — You’d see me hanged first. Good-bye, Phil. 
Don’t let the grass grow under your feet, but begin 
at once to be the shadow of my wife. Call on her, 
invite her to the theatre, supper, etc. ; invite me too, 
of course ; but leave Clara out, or Adele will think you 
are doing it all for her. Write Adele notes ; send her 
things — a bouquet or a diamond ; send ’em up to-day. 

\Exeuntl\ 


ACT II. 

Scene. — Mrs. Adae’s drawing-room one month later. 

[Clara and Adele.] 

Adele . — I have wanted to ask you something for a 
long time, Clara. What is the trouble between you 
and Mr. Solder ? 


88 


MORTAL LIPS. 


Clara. — \Coldlyl\ The trouble ? What do you 

mean ? 

A dele. — Why do you answer in that tone ? Am 1 
culpable ? 

Clara. — Don’t let us have a scene over Mr. Solder, 
dear Adele ; he’s nothing to me. 

Adele. — I am glad to hear it. I have suffered Mr. 
Solder’s marked attentions because I thought, hav- 
ing quarrelled with you, he was seeking to be recon- 
ciled through me. Now I know what to do. But — 
poor fellow ! Has there been a misunderstanding, 
Clara? You used to be fond of him 

Clara. — I would make you my confidante, Adele, 
if I had anything to confide. 

Adele. — You make me very unhappy by adopting 
that tone. Can’t I help you ? I am ready to do 
everything ; I will tell this gentleman as I have 
already told George — 

Clara. — My dear Adele, you live in a modern 
world where a married woman has not lost her power 
of conquest. I don’t blame you for being as modern 
as your neighbor. Amusez vous bien^ my dear sister- 
in-law. 

A dele . — Tra-deri-dera. 


CHESTNUTS, 


[^SAe goes to the piano and runs her fingers over the 
keys^ 

Clara. — What do you say ? 

A dele. — I am trying my voice, dear Clara. Does it 
disturb your reading.? 

Clara. — Do not think of that, dear Adele ; I prom- 
ised mamma to spend the evening in her room ? 

\^Exit Clara.] 

Adele. — She has gone ! So much the better. She 
is bent on misunderstanding me. 

[Enter Joanna, with card.'] 

Mr. Philip Solder! Ask him up Joanna, and take 
the card to Miss Adae. 

Joanna. — Yes, ma’am. 

[Exit Joanna.] 

Adele. — [Crossing to pier glass and tapping her hair 
gentlyi] This is persecution! Now I mean to have 
it out with him. Because he has quarrelled with 
Clara, is it necessary to pay court to me? I have 
appealed to my husband, who only smiles. Oh ! I 
am very unhappy. I wish I were married to a man 
who loved me well enough to be jealous. 


[Enter Phil.] 


90 


MORTAL LIPS. 


Phil. — Have I the happiness to see you alone ? 

Adele.—T\\.^ maid has taken your card to Miss 
Adae ; she will be down in a few minutes, and mean- 
time you must be content to talk with me — an old 
married woman. 

Phil. — I came to see you. 

Adele.— i:\idxvV you. I am glad to welcome any 
friend of my husband. And you are George's old 
friend, aren’t you, Mr. Solder? 

Pkil. — Er — I was — Why, certainly, George and I 
hit it off very well. 

Adele. — You started to say you were his friend 
once. Let us understand each other, Mr. Solder. I 
have waited for you to speak, always willing to do my 
utmost to reconcile you with Clara. Isn’t it time for 
plain-speaking ? 

Phil. — You are right. Let us speak out. No, I 
cannot! \_With effort Listen. If there has been a 
change in the relations between your husband and 
myself — 

Adele. — I spoke of Miss Adae and yourself. 

Phil. — [Without looking at her and speaking as by 
rote ^ — between your husband and myself, whose 
fault is it ? Is it mine? Is it his ? Do not interrupt 
me, I beg you. A friend of mine has a jewel which 


CHESTNUTS. 


9 ^ 


the laws of man forbid him to part with. What are 
the laws of men ? Only an approximation to the 
laws of nature. I have seen his jewel, and I long to 
have it for my own, to wear it on my heart. How 
many years would I serve my friend if in payment he 
gave me the jewel ! But if he refuses, he is no more 
my friend. Who then will blame me if I take from 
him by force what I cannot live without ? 

Adele . — Are you speaking of my husband? What 
jewel ? I don’t understand you. 

Phil , — You must understand me. Of whom am I 
speaking, if not of him ? Who else has a claim to the 
jewel I long to wear? Don’t stop me now — let me 
say it all — my heart has been full so long ! I have 
seen you daily growing more indifferent to that man. 
I have seen you wearying of his society and losing 
lustre like a gem in smoke. Adele, instead of bidding 
me be silent, will you not ask me why I never spoke 
before ? Forgive me. It was not easy to break the 
ties of friendship, but now that you tell me with your 
own voice you no longer love him — 

Adele. — \Recoilingl\ How far — how far — will your 
audacity carry you ? When did I ever utter that 
abominable lie ? 


93 


MORTAL LIPS. 


[George, who has come in unperceivedy steps for- 
ward.] 

George. — Is it a lie, Adele ? 

Adele.—{In his arms.] Oh, George, my husband ! 
Sead that man out of the house ! 

George. — Sit here. He shall not say a word with- 
out your permission. But pity me, Adele, and 
answer. Does he speak the truth ? 

Adele. — Can you ask me that question while he is 
here ? 

George. — Never mind him. Answer me. Have 
you grown cold to me ? Answer as to your own 
heart, for I am as powerless as it to blame you ; say, 
if the choice lay between that man and me, which 
would you choose ? 

Adele. — Neither. 

George. — {Aghast?^ What ? 

Adele. — \Risingl] You are my husband, George : 
what have I done as your wife to be placed in this 
false position? 

George. — You love me then no longer! B’ut I — I — 
love you still. 

Adele. — How can I believe it, while that man 
remains in the house? 


CHESTNUTS. 


93 

George, — It is true ; we should be alone. Phil, will 
you leave us together 

Adele, — Phil? Can you still call him Phil? Oh! 
then, you did not hear all he said. 

[Enter Mrs. Adae and CLARA, pushing hack the 
library portiere.'\ 

Clara. — But we did. We have heard every word. 
We were not eavesdropping, Mr. Solder. When your 
card was brought up I asked mamma to accompany me 
down-stairs, and we arrived at the door in time to 
hear your vows. At the door we have stood till now, 
rooted by horror. 

Phil . — [ Wildly Clara ! let me explain ! 

Clara, — Pardon me. I have already heard your 
explanation. Mamma and I thought it only honor- 
able to enter and tell you we had overheard. Now 
we may go. 

George, — Stay, Clara ; do not go till you know the 
truth. 

Clara, — The truth? I know it. You are weak, 
George. Why is that man still here ? Come, 
mamma. 

[Exit Clara.] 

Mrs. Adae. — Forgive me, Adele, for keeping 


94 


MORTAL LIPS. 


silence ; I am dazed. What does it mean ? Philip 
has been our friend so long ; I have known him from 
a little boy and I cannot believe he is base. It 
sounded to me like play-acting. 



George . — So it was. 

A dele . — George ! 

George. — {Kneeling by her chair. 1 Can you forgive 
me, darling ? 

A dele . — It was a play? 

George . — A comedy. 



CHESTNUTS. 


95 


Adele . — Too tragical for mirth. Then Mr. Solder 
only spoke the lines of his part. Who wrote the 
piece ? 

George . — I inspired it. Adele, why do you look 
like that ? 

Adele . — You seem a stranger. I am wondering 
how in the long years we have known each other I 
have never dreamed you were so cynical, so cold- 
hearted. Your little experiment is not an utter fail- 
ure. 

George . — It is you who are strange, Adele ; you, in 
taking this play so seriously. 

Adele . — That is how I would have you speak, like a 
business man, and not in the tones of a lover or a 
husband. Either would find your plot detestable. 

George. — \Jn a low voicel\ Adele ! 

Adele. — {Walking from him.'] Mother, shall we 
leave the actors to their well-earned rest ? 

{Exeunt ladies. George and Philip remain silent 
some minutes.] 

Pkil.—Chcev up, old fellow. Go after her. A bit 
of talk will smooth the waters for you. As for me, 
IVe burned my paws with your chestnuts. Clara 
will never speak to me again. 


96 


MORTAL LIPS. 


George, — Clara! Child’s-play! She’ll borrow the 
plot for a story. You heard Adele say I had killed 
her confidence ? 

Phil . — You can revive it again. 

George . — What a bat a naan is at best ! I hate my 
plan now that I see it with her eyes. What next ? 
I’ve lighted my fire, I’ve roasted my chestnuts, and 
they’re wormy ! 



•4 



THE COMPROMISING LETTERS. 


Scene. — The same as in “ Chestnuts.” Mrs. Adae’s drawing-room. 
The morning after the play. 

Joanna. — {Showing in Mr. Solder^ Which Mrs. 
Adae, sir? 

Philip . — Mrs. George Adae. She is expecting me. 

{He seats himself^ takes a book from the table and turns 
the leaves nervously. Enter Adele. He risesl\ 

Adele . — I am glad to see you, Mr. Solder. {She 
offers her hand.'] 

7 


97 


98 


MORTAL LIPS. 


Phil . — Then you have forgiven me ? 

Adele . — When I thought over the scene of last 
night I found that you did not need forgiveness. 
You were not the instigator. 

Phil. — No. Ah ! — does Miss Adae take the same 

view "I 

Adele . — That I can’t tell you: I haven’t seen Clara 
this morning. 

Phil. — Georg'e and you will explain to her? 

Adele. — Perhaps. Yes, I promise to tell her all 
about it. You must ask Mr. Adae on your own 
account. He and I will act in concert in one thing 
only. I presume you can guess what it is. 

Phil. — Why, no — I canT. 

Adele . — No ? It is hardly to be expected that you 
can enter into my feelings. Nevertheless I have 
decided to make you my confidant. I have no other. 
And since you already know so much of our affairs 
you may as well know the whole. 

Phil. — [Doubtfully.'] Thank you. You may count 
on my discretion. 

Adele . — I thought so. You are an honest man, and 
my husband’^s good friend. More than that, you are a 
man of the world and can advise us how to proceed. 
When I proposed you to be our adviser, Mr. Adae 


THE COMPROMISING LETTERS. 


99 


accepted you warmly. No doubt you have had some 
experience in these affairs. You have an interest in a 
dramatic paper, and the matrimonial difficulties of 
actors are notorious. You will class mine with them. 
Indeed, it has a stage flavor. 

P/izV . — I haven’t the least idea what you are talking 
about. 

Adele. — \In surprise?^ What but our separation ? 
I have had an explanation with my husband. He 
does not deny that he has aggrieved — insulted me. 
I have asked for a divorce, and he makes no objection. 
I speak of that. 

Phil . — What are you giving me? I beg pardon, 
Mrs. Adae, for using slang, but this knocks me silly. 

Adele . — So it seems. Unhappily, it is true. Mr. 
Adae will tell you so immediately. 

Phil . — A divorce ? Impossible ! 

Adele . — Why impossible? 

Phil. — [Stammering.'] There’s no reason for it — is 
there ? Surely you don’t think his innocent stratagem 
sufficient ? 

Adele.— Innocent stratagem! Is it so you call an 
attack on all a woman holds most sacred ? her confi- 
dence — her love — her honor? But let that pass. It 
is enough that I feel outraged and insulted. I can- 


100 


MORTAL LIPS. 


not honestly live with him longer, and I have told him 
so. 

Phil. — I think I’m dreaming. 

Adele. — I’ll wake you up. We have called you here 
this morning, Mr. Adae and I, to take your advice, 
before consulting a lawyer, on the best way to obtain 
a separation with the briefest delay and the least 
noise possible. 

Phil. — That wakes me with a start. 

Adele. — I suggested your name for two reasons : the 
first you already know ; the second is the outcome of 
an amusing article by you called “ Hymen vs. Stars,” 
where you proved the poor god to be impotent behind 
the footlights. I remember laughing over your illus- 
trations of the ease with which many actresses have 
broken their shackles, and it occurred to me that per- 
haps you could show me how to do likewise. Can 
you ? 

Phil. — I doubt it. 

Adele. — I will let Mr. Adae urge you. Here he 
comes. 

[As George enters by one side door^ Adele leaves 
by another I\ 


George. — Well, Phil. 


THE COMPROMISING LETTERS. 


lOI 


p/^27.__Well, George. 

George. — I suppose Adele has told you all about it. 

Phil. — Yes. Is she serious ? 

George. — Apparently. And I am going to let her 
have her way. 

Phil. — Are you both crazy ? A divorce on account 
of your little comedy 1 

George. — Comedy? It’s plain you’re a bachelor. 

Phil.— Bachelor or benedict, I should know what to 
do with my wife when she pouted. I should shut 
her up in her room on bread and water. 

George. — You’re a brute. Better not let Clara 
hear you. But I’ve a better plan than yours. 

Phil. — Another comedy ? Then count me out. 

George. — I don’t need you ; besides, you are engaged 
to support Mrs. Adae : do all she asks you, conform 
absolutely to her desires ; suggest some plan by which 
she can get a divorce, but be sure to exaggerate the 
difficulties and the scandal. I will second you, and 
then at the last moment I will step in and — hush, 
she’s coming back. 

[Enter Adele.] 

Adele. — Are the preliminaries over? Has he con- 
vinced you, Mr. Solder, that we are in earnest ? 


102 


MORTAL LIPS. 


Pktl.— [Sadly.] Yes. But I can’t help you. 

A dele. — Why not.? 

Phil. — Unless you give me the reason that you are 
hiding from me. Is it incompatibility? 

A dele. — No. 

Phil. — Cruel and inhuman treatment ? 

George. — Absurd ! 

Phil. — Failure to support ? 

George. — Pshaw ! 

Phil. — Habitual drunkenness? Desertion? You 
will answer “ No ” to all the grounds on which divorce 
is granted. Mutual consent is not one of them. 
That’s why I can’t advise you. I think you are 
divorceless — at least, in New York. 

George. — We might go to Chicago. 

Adele. — I remember your press article better, Mr. 
Solder. It instanced a man and wife who disliked to 
allege the true motive of divorce. Have you forgot- 
ten what they did ? 

Phil. — My words on my head. They invented one. 

Adele. — Can’t we do likewise? 

Phil. — If George is willing. It is necessary to sup- 
pose the husband’s misconduct. 

George. — I consent to everything. 

Phil. — And there must be proofs. George will 


THE COMPROMISING LETTERS. 


103 


have to write some compromising letters, and you, 
Mrs. Adae, will have to swear that you found 
them. 

George. — You don’t mean swear! Adele wouldn’t 
swear to a lie. 

Adele. — Why not ? Is it worse than to act one ? 

George. — You are right. Go on, Phil. 

Phil. — That’s all. These letters will be read in 
court. 

Adele. — Out loud ? 

Phil. — I suppose so. 

Adele. — And published in the newspapers ? Horri- 
ble ! 

Phil. — No. We can prevent that. 

George. — {Aside to PHIL.] Why don’t you say yes. 
{Aloud.\ Of course the reporters will get hold of 
them. 

Adele. — We will buy them off. Mr. Solder, will 
the letters suffice for a divorce ? 

Phil. — Amply. 

George. — To whom shall these compromising letters 
be addressed ? 

Phil. — To nobody — to an unknown. It is sufficient 
that they are love letters written by you subsequent 
to your marriage and not addressed to your wife. 

I 


104 


MORTAL LIPS, 


George. — Very well ; Fll write ’em. 

A dele. — {Astonishedl\ You will? 

George. — Yes> Fll write ’em now. Suppose we write 
them together. What do you say ? It will be jolly. 
Still we needn’t do it now. There’s no hurry, I sup- 
pose? 

Adele. — \To PHIL.] Is there any hurry? 

Phil. — No, if you’re not in a hurry; yes, you wish 
to be divorced quickly. 

Adele. — Oh, the quickest possible. Don’t we ? 

George. — Very evidently. But I’d like to ask Phil 
for some points on divorce. I know nothing about it. 
What must I do ? First, I write these compromising 
letters; and then? 

Phil. — And then — nothing at all. You don’t 
appear, and the decree issues by default. 

Adele. — The letters do it all? I don’t have to 
appear in court. Isn’t it easy? 

Phil. — Pardon me, Mrs. Adae, I only referred to 
George. With you it is different. As soon as George 
has written the compromising letters, you take them 
to your lawyer; he draws up the case and has it 
assigned for trial. When the time comes you appear 
in court with your witnesses — 

Adele, — Who are they? 


THE COMPROMISING LETTERS. 105 

Phil. — The letters — silent witnesses in your case. 
You relate your griefs to the judge — 

A dele. — Before all the people ? 

Phil. — Perhaps we can arrange to have a private trial. 

Adele. — \_Anxiousfy.] Is it absolutely necessary for 
me to appear ? 

Phil. — Absolutely. 

[Adele reflects. George watches her, with a pretence 
of carelessness. She sees Imn and makes tip her 
mind.'] 

Adele. — It is not pleasant, but other women have 
done it. 

George. — Yes. There was — 

Adele. — Go on, please, Mr. Solder. 

Phil. — The lawyer will tell you much better than I 
can. When you take him the letters he will explain 
the process in detail. 

Adele. — George, please be so good as to write the 
letters at once. Then Mr. Solder can go with me to 
carry them to a lawyer this afternoon. 

George. — As you please. {He sits at his ivifes 
secretaire?] I can’t write them on paper with your 
monogram ; haven’t you any other ? 

Adele. — In the drawer at your right. 


io6 


MORTAL LIPS. 


George. — \Playing with pen and meditating^ I say, 
Phil, must they be long? 

Phil. — No, provided they are clear, 

George. — All right. You two continue your con- 
versation. If you keep your eyes fixed on me, I can’t 
write a word. It paralyzes me. 

Adele. — In the drawer at your left you will find a 
bundle of letters that you wrote me before marriage. 
You might plagiarize them. 

[George starts at this ; he feels a queer tightening at 
his throat ; then he thinks of something and smiles. 
He hunts for the bundle of letters referred tOy and 
with unsteady fingers unties the ribbon that binds 
them. Presently he begins to write. In the mean- 
time Adele and Phil try to keep up a conversation 
on indijferent subjects.'] 

Adele. — I saw you at the theatre the other evening 
beside a beautiful woman. Who is she? 

Phil. — She is tlie wife of my closest friend, Julius 
Mathews. 

Adele. — I thought so. I had intended to ask Mrs. 
Vane to take me to call on her — 

George. — \Choosing his words, murmurs in a low 
voicel] “ My Angel” — My Sweetheart ” — 


THE COMPROMISING LETTERS. 


107 


A dele. — What do you say ? 

George. — I was writing. 

Adele. — Pardon me. As I was saying, Mr. Solder, 
I had hoped to meet your friend, but now — 

Phil. — That's the worst of it. Une femme divorcee 
a toujours tort. 

Adele. — {Indignant lyl\ If she is right she need not 
care what people think ! 

George. — {In a low voice^ biting his pen.'] My 
Sweetheart " — “ My Angel." 

Adele. — You don’t seem to get on very fast. 

George. — I’ve finished. Here are four letters. They 
are short, but I think they’ll do. 

Phil. — Are they to the point ? 

George. — I believe so. You can read them and 
judge. 

Phil. — Let me see the first one. 

Adele. — Read it aloud, Mr. Solder. 

Phil. — ^You've dated it ? Yes, all right. {Readsl] 
“ My darling, since we have spoken, life seems so lovely 
to me. Yesterday I felt that I had not an object in 
the world to live for ; to-day I am at the other extreme, 
caring all for one — for one ? for you ! And so you 
really love me a little ? poor unworthy me? " 

Adele. — “Poor unworthy me ’’ is good. 


io8 


MORTAL LIPS. 


PhiL — {Readhig^ Your love is not thrown 

away, for when I told you last night I loved you, I de- 
ceived you : Maude, I adore you. Your own George.” 
That’s not bad ; it’s well written. But for an action 
for divorce, it is a little sweet, a little soft. 

Adele. — Very much too soft ! 

George — You are both too quick to criticise. This 
letter is only the first ; it is necessary to lead up grad- 
ually. 

PhiL — Give us the others, the last one, for instance. 

George. — Here it is. {He moves to where he can 
clearly see Adele s face.'] 

Phil. — {Taking the letter and ccrnmencing to read.'] 
“ Dear” — {He looks uf.] The name’s crossed out ! 

George. — Read on. 

Phil. — {Reading?^ Are we not to be even friends ? 
Your manner yesterday was constraint and coldness 
itself. I had a heavy sort of disappointed feeling all 
day, and when you came to see me, though other 
people were present, I wondered how you could look 
in my eyes and not see the heartache there — ” 

Adele. — George I It is not possible ! Is that my 
letter ? 

George. — Hear to the end. Go on, Phil. 

PhiL — {Reading L\ It is by my own wish that we 




r 1 

M| 



. i 




I 














no 


MORTAL LIPS, 


are no longer engaged, but I am unhappywhen I think 
you are growing to care less for my friendship. Last 
night I felt this in your manner — was it imagination ? 
If I could cultivate indifference in my heart ! But I 
cannot — ” 

Adele. — Oh, George, how can you ? It is my let- 
ter! 

George. — Hand it to me, Phil. \He degins to read 
where Phil left off.'] — “ and there’s the danger. I 
keep on building little castles and find that I am 
always planning my life in connection with you. So 
I go on in some content until a day comes — like 
to-day, when I feel that I have not your confidence or 
the right to it.” 

A dele. — [In tears I] You will not use that letter ? 
George, you cannot ! 

George. — [Reading.] ‘*I am not sure I will send 
what I have written. It sounds so indelicate, and 
yet it helps me so much to pour out my full heart. 
And. it seems, now, as if I could not go on much 
longer without telling you the truth — ” 

A dele. — Do not read the next words — please ! 
please ! 

George. — [In a low voice to herl] Do you remember 
what the next words were ? 


THE COMPROMISING LETTERS, 1 1 1 

Adele, — \^Trembling,'\ Yes, yes. Oh, George, for- 
give me ! 

George. — I forgive my wife now as I forgave my sweet- 
heart then. Neither time had I anything to forgive, 
and now as then I bless her for calling me back. But 
do you really remember what the next words were ? 

Adele. — \In his armsl\ “ I love you, George — come 
back to me ! ” 

George. — To-day’s message, or last year’s? 

A dele. — T o-day ’s. 

George. — \_Tenderly.'] My wife! And you forgive 
me ? 

Phil. — {Who has possessed himself of the letter^ 
retires to a corner, reading.'] “And it seems now as 
if I could not go on much longer without telling you 
the truth — I love you, George — come back to me.” 


[Curtain.] 


MARY’S INTERLUDE 


Mary McGuire, . in Mrs. Mathews’ service. 
Garry McGuire, . . . her father. 

Mary’s Suitors. 

Patrick McNamara, . . a policeman. 

William, butcher. 

Terence, . . in the coal and kindling line. 

August, grocer’s boy. 

Justice, Clerk, Spectators, etc. 


MARY’S INTERLUDE 


Scene I. — A police court. Justice and Patrick behind the rail. 
Terence, William, and August near the stove. Garry in the 
box. 

Justice . — What ? Old Garry ! It’s you again ? 

Garry. — Agin, Judge Parsons.^ An’ it’s not me as 
complains of seein’ ye. Bedad, yer face is a cordal. 

Justice. — Oh, well, we’re tired of you, Garry. It’s 
shameful ! This is the nineteenth time you’ve been 
here. 

Garry . — My sarvice to ye, judge, an’ I’m glad to 
see ye so frequent. 

8 113 


MORTAL LIPS. 


1 14 

Justice . — Nineteen times in four years ! Hand me 
the book, Edward. The first offence was in ^82, 
before my time. Drunk and disorderly. 

Garry. — ’Deed, an’ I remember it well. The time 
of Judge Wheeler, an ould man wid a scrape of hair 
back of the ears. Did you know him, belike ? 

Justice. — {Fingering the record^ Silence, Garry. 
Then disorderly conduct, two offences in ’83, and six 
in ’84. That was a good year, ’84, Garry. 

Garry . — ’Lection year, judge ; ’twas when yourself 
came in. I voted for ye, judge ; I says Mr. Parsons 
has got such a nice way wid him I’m sure we’ll agree. 

Justice . — In ’85, breaking down and destroying a 
cigar sign — 

Garry . — A bit of fun, judge ; no harrum in it. Ould 
Garry never did harrum to a mortal sowl. 

Justice. — That’s enough, isn’t it, Garry ? In ’86 you 
were sentenced to three months for carrying off a 
dumping cart. 

Garry . — You remimber that, judge ? ’Twas yer- 
self persided. That time ye was bent on mischief. 
’Faith it makes me young agin to think how long 
we’ve known each other. Talk about judges, when 
Judge Parsons goes we’ll never see the likes of him in 
this court again. 


MARY^S INTERLUDE. 


II5 

Justice. — Silence ! Do you mean to keep this up to 
the end, Garry ? Over and over again you fall into 
the same scrapes. You are an idle, drunken rascal, 
Garry ; and your friends, if you have any, must be 
worn out. 

Garry. — Whisht, whisht ! When Garry goes it’s 
not you will cry your eyes out wid grief, anyway. 
Why should the pair of us quarrel, judge? D’ye mind 
I keep a civil tongue in me head ? 

Justice. — As for the present case, do you know why 
you are here ? The scandal you caused yesterday on 
125th street — 

Garry. — Scandal is it ? Ochone ! Oh, the lies of 
them — \^He breaks off on seeing an acquaintance in 
the court-room draw out his paper of chewing tobacco^ 
Are ye there, Mr. Blandy ? I’ll trouble ye for a 
mouthful of that. 

Justice. — {Sternly?^ Answer my question, prisoner, 
and don’t occupy yourself with what goes on below. 
It’s no concern of yours. 

Garry. — Sure, judge, an’ I know Mr. Blandy as well 
as I know yerself. Never was finer tobaccy than he 
carries — 

Justice. — Silence ! Let us get back to the deplor- 
able scene of yesterday. 


ii6 


MORTAL LIPS. 


[/^/ this moment the tobacco^ passing from hand to hand^ 
reaches Garry.] 

Garry. — Thank ye kindly, Mr. Blandy. Sure ye’re 
deservin’ a goold medal. What is it now ye pays 
for this — 

Justice. — When you’ve finished I’ll continue. 

Garry. — Quite right, judge. At yer orders, judge. 
Hu — that’s better; that dares my head. Thank ye 
kindly, Mr. Blandy. 

Justice. — Yesterday afternoon the wife of the aider- 
man of the ninth district was walking alone on 
Seventh Avenue, when you stepped up to her and 
with unblushing impudence invited her to take your 
arm. 

Garry. — Where is the harrum, my dear? The 
alderman is a friend of mine, an’ his lady might be 
another. Faith, she’s big enough to choose for her- 
self, an’ out of politeness inborrun wid a descind- 
int of Irish kings — Listen to the poor crathurs 
laugh ! 

Justice. — Garry, turn to the court. You must not 
speak to the public. 

Garry . — Let them hould their mirth, then. Ye are 
not here to amuse yerselves, ye idiots ; this court-room 


MARY'S INTERLUDE. 


ii; 

is the timple of justice, an’ ye should draw nigh to it 
wid serious faces. 

Justice.— Gdivvy, for the last time, will you turn 
about and look at me ? 

Garry. — Where were we when we lift off? Them 
poor bodies have made me lose the thread. Oh, thin 
it was from Irish gallantry I took the lone woman to 
her door. She said neither aye, yes, or nay — 

Justtce, — So you attach yourself to this poor lady 
against her will ; boys and idlers get wind of it, and 
in a trice a crowd forms behind you. Then a police- 
man appears — 

Garry. — Patrick McNamara himself. I’ll put a flea 
in his ear. The spalpeen has lost his chance wid me 
Mary — 

William. — [From near the stove ^ Hear ! Hear ! 

Terence. — [A pplaudingl\ H u rray ! 

August. — [In a loud tone.'\ Goot ! 

Justice. — Order in court ! He tells you to be off — 

Garry. — That’s his worrud, judge. An’ what roight 
had the by to interfere ? 

Justice. — You resist. 

Garry. — He laid his hand on me. 

Justice. — ^You fling him a volley of insulting 
words — 


MORTAL LIPS. 


IlB 

Garry. — Family worruds, judge ; but the poor 
crathur had his oi on me Mary. Who knows but I 
had taken a drop too much yesterday? It s just pos- 
sible. 



Justice. — It’s certain. Well, I must not waste more 
time. Ten dollars or thirty days. 

Garry. — You can’t mane it, judge? Where will I 
get tin — 

[ The three young men advance to the box?\^ 

William. — Let me settle up for you, Garry. 

Terence. — This from me mother, ould Garry ; it’s a 
good friend she is t'ye. 

August. — I have dot loan for you, Mr. McGuire. 


MARY^S INTERL UDE. 


II9 

Garry, — Blessin’s on ye, me bys. Til take five from 
the each of yees. That laves me five to brace up on. 

Justice. — You’re rich in friends, Garry. 

Garry. — Only one, bedad, in the world, judge, me 
daughter Mary ; they’re all after her. Get a daugh- 
ter to look to in time o’trouble ; that’s me advice, 
judge, an’ the top of the mornin’ t’ye. 


Scene II. passes in the kitchen of Mr. Mathews’ house in Harlem. 

Door opening on area. 

{Policeman Patrick discovered beating a restless tattoo 
with his club. Mary appearsl\ 

Mary. — It’s you, is it, Mr. Policeman ? What might 
ye be after ? 

Patrick. — Yes, Mary, it’s me ; an’ what would I be 
after but you ? 

Mary. — I’m beholden t’ye, 34, but I’m not in need 
of your sarvice. I’ll sind for ye when I wishes to be 
took to the calaboose. 

Patrick. — Ye’re angered, Mary ; an’ why for? Faith, 
if I spoke yesterday to Bridget Blanigan it was on a 
matter of business. 

Mary. — I have nothin’ to say at yer spakin’ to any 
leddy, 34, an’ so I tells ye widout decate. 


120 


MORTAL LIPS. 


Patrick . — As somethin' is wrong wid you, Mary, I’ll 
be movin’. 

Mary . — Right ye are, 34 ; an’ I thank ye kindly, for 
yer face it is physic. 

Patrick.— T\s, a sour word to come from yer lips, 
Mary McGuire, an’ me as has had only swateness from 
the same rosy vehaycle. Oh, Mary, little I thought 
ye would dagger me heart in this fashion. 

Mary.—Et off. Is it bad ye are feelin’, Patrick ? 

Patrick . — No slape for me this night, an’ me the 
whole night on me bate. 

Mary. — Faith, it was unkindly done when ye run in 
the old father but yesterday. 

Patrick . — On me sowl, Mary, it couldn’t be helped. 
He had called such a crowd from the stores and 
houses, they would have complained me number away 
if I hadn’t arristed him ; an’ how can I win me Mary 
if me job is lost ? 

Mary. — Ye’ve made sad work of it, Patrick — yev’e 
saved yer job and lost yer Mary. I’ve promised 
meself. 

Patrick . — To another? 

Mary . — To three others. They’re within there: 
d’ye hear ’em disagreein’ ? Yes, Patrick, I was that 
angered agin ye that when Teddy said as he’d pay the 


MARY’S INTERLUDE. 


12 


fine for the ould father for me promise, why, as me 
nor Tom, me sister’s man, had no money laid by, I 
promised. An’ when William the butcher said the 
same I accepted, thinkin’ Teddy was a bit flighty; 
an’ when August the grocer brought the money I 
thought as how he was steadiest, an’ I gave him 
me word. Oh, Patrick, they’re within there : each 
man of 'em come for me to name the day, and they 
drive me nigh frantic wid their clavers. 

Patrick. — There’s safety in numbers, Mary, me 
darlin’. 

Mary . — Oh, Patrick, I’m in sore trouble, an’ if I 
gets out of this scrape I’ll tell everybody as I wants 
no steady company. God knows I’m better widout. 

Patrick. — So ye’ll be when I’m yer husband. Oh, 
there’s mischief in yer eye, Mary McGuire ; ye know 
fine what to tell ’em. Are ye goin’ ? 

Mary. — Yes. Hear ’em callin’? I must go back 
to the keesine. 

Patrick. — The keesine. What is that ? 

Mary. — It’s what the mistress calls the kitchen. 
The mistress is just out of a convent. 

Patrick. — An’ they are just out of a girrul. 

\Scene changes to the interior of the basement. Ter- 
ence and William discovered^ 





MA/^V’S INTERLUDE. 


123 


Terence, — Now, Bill Smith, havin’ dropped them 
things in the rayfrigerator, I suppose you’ll be takin’ 
yourself off. 

William. — Not so fast, Teddy, my boy ; I’m not 
here on business, but pleasure. 

Terence.-— pleasure is to throw ye out, aisey-like, 
by the window. 

William. — The door’s good enough for me. Say, 
Teddy, are you setting up to my girl ? 

Terence. — Your girrul, is it, ye beggarly hash-chop- 
per? Wait and get one when ye start business for 
yerself. 

William. — Peddling kindling, eh, Teddy? 

{Enter Mary.] 

Mary . — Excuse me for kapin’ ye waitin’, gintlemen. 
Won’t ye sit ? The dinner was a trifle later than 
common this avenin’. An’ how do you find yerself, 
Mr. William ? Mr. Terence, ye’re lookin’ bloomin’. 

Terence. — Are ye kapin’ company wid him, Mary? 

Mary. — What an ambarrassin’ question ! 

Terence . — A little worrud will answer it. {The area 
bell rings.\ 

Mary . — [7h WILLIAM.] Wud ye mind lookin’ out 
by the door an’ show the gintleman in ? 

{Exit William.] 


124 


MORTAL LIPS. 


Terence. — Spake up, now. 

Mary. — Don’t be makin’ a fool of yerself, Teddy ; 
Mr. William is no more to me than a friend. 

Terence. — It’s honey ye spake, Mary, me darlin’, an’ 
I’m the bee for gatherin’ it. 

Mary. — {Near the door.'\ Terence, ye’ll dismantle 
me costume ! 

{Re-enter WILLIAM with AUGUST.] 

William. — A cop is on the other side shadowing the 
house. 

Mary. — {With dignity?^ Ye are too upsettin’, sir. 
Welcome, Mr. August. These gints are ould frinds 
of me family. Kindly put the basket on the table in 
the rare room, Mr. August. 

{Exit August.] 

William. — Where did you pick up the Dutchy ? 
Terence. — Is he here for long, Mary ? 

Mary. — He’s a musical gint. Ye know how crazy 
them parties are to sing : can ye play, Mr. William ? 
No. Terence, you wonce had the beautiful whistle. 

{Re-enter AUGUST.] 


August . — Vos dot all ? 


MAHV^S INTERLUDE. 


125 


Mary, — Sit here by me, Mr. August. Have ye 
been to the theaytre this summer ? 

August. — I goes to the Thalia last week. 

Mary. — Indade ; did ye pleasure yerself } 

August. — I goes out mit the curtain for a beer. 

Mary. — Oh, beer ! Me physician said it was makin’ 
me stout. Now wid me meals I only take claret an’ 
watter. 

William. — Do you keep it down here ? 

Mary. — Yes, Mr. William — the watter. 

Terence. — Ha, ha! 

William. — \_Threatening.'] I’ll give you somethin’ 
to laugh at. 

Terence. — Hould me or I’ll clip him wan over the 
head. 

Mary. — Gints, as ye vally the 'frindship of a leddy ! 
[Makes a sign to TERENCE.] One minute ; will ye look 
over the album of frindly sintiments till me return ? 

[Exit to rear room, followed by Terence.] 

William. — What are you sitting there for, Dutchy ? 
Clear out. 

August. — Vos" you talking off me ? 

William. — Vos I talking off an image? [Aside.] I 
wonder what they are doing out there so long ? 


126 


MORTAL LIPS. 


[William follows to rear room, hi a few minutes 
Mary returns alone.] 

August. — You VOS there, madchen ? Ven vill you 
be mine frau ? 

Mary. — Sure I don’t know, Mr. August. 

August. — But I haf your promise. You vill? 
[ Tries to embrace herl\ 

Mary. — \Eludingl\ Yes, yes; on one condition. 

August. — Vot VOS dot? 

Mary. — That you will go at twelve o’clock the night 
after Friday to the ould Chancy plot behind the tini- 
ments on One Hundred and Thirty-second Street ; 
ye’ll climb over the wall, an’ there ye’ll find a dead 
man with a mourner houldin’ a wake over him, lyin’ 
on a flat stone nigh the gate. Ye’ll take him by the 
heels an’ pitch him over on the grass. 

August. — Nein, nein ! I vos never do dot. 

Mary. — Very well then, Mr. August ; then ye can 
walk yerself home. 

August. — To pitch dose mourner bring pad luck. 

Mary. — No, no ; the dead man. You can go as the 
ould wan wid spangles an’ a long tail — 

August. — Yaw, likes Mephistopheles in dot beauti- 
ful ** Faust.” 


MARY'S INTERLUDE. 


127 


Mary. — No, no ; loike the ould wan. 
August. — Goot, goot. I does it. 
Mary. — What ! you promise ? 
August . — This night I does it. 


Mary . — Not to-night. Saturday night at twelve. 
Mind! There’s me mistress cornin’! Be quick, Mr. 
August ; this way ! 

[Exit August.] 

Faith, me heart’s as light as a bird to see the last 




128 


MORTAL LIPS. 


of theip. \A policeman whistles?^ Cornin’, Patrick! 
Sure he’ll laugh at the news I’ve to tell him. 


Scene III.— Night : an abandoned graveyard ; a high gate in the back- 
ground; in front, a path bordered by shrubs, winding among 
broken marble slabs, fallen headstones, etc. 

{Enter William, moving cautiously^ 
William.— This must be the stone. Ugh, how 
scary this place is 1 fit for spooks, if there are such. Of 
course there are. Who spoke? Pshaw ! it was my 
own voice. Thank goodness, I needn’t stay here 
long ; half an hour, and as much less as I care to 
shorten it. There goes a clock — just twelve. Now 
to lie on the stone, face to the stars. It’s clammy. 
A strange notion for a girl to get in her head, to 
promise to marry me if I would lie half an hour on 
this stone. I must be far gone on Mary to do it ; but 
she is a fine girl, only too romantic by half; and with 
too many fine-lady notions. I’ll soon take them out 
of her when we’re married. I wonder if anybody 
watches this place ; if so it’s to be hoped he won’t see 
me ; he’d arrest me for a grave-robber sure. There’s 
the watchman now. Oh Lord ! — he may pass with- 


MAJ^ V ’S INTERL UDE. 1 29 

out seeing me. Why, it’s Teddy ! If he comes this 
way I’ll give him a jump. 

Teddy, — Here’s the stone — and, bedad ! here’s the 
corpse! Poor divil! dead an’ homeless, an’ widout a 
mourner to sit by an’ comfort ye I It’s my Mary as 
has a feelin’ heart : many a wake we’ll have in the 
house after the weddin’. I’ll jist sit down at the head 
of him, an’ take a nip o’ the crathur. {Drinks from a 
bottle^ I feel more sorrowful a’ready. Ah ! it’s the 
proper stuff for them that’s left behind. What a pity 
the poor divil can’t take a wee nip an’ be sociable 1 
I’ll offer it to him as a forrum. {Holds bottle to Wil- 
liam, who drinks.] Be jabers, you’re thirsty ! Half 
the sperrit’s gone widout a word o* thanks ! 

William. — {In a sepulchral tonel] Bless you, 
friend 1 

Terence.— {Starting upl] Howly saints ! it’s alive ! 

William.— ; but fear nothing ; I will not harm 
you. Your name is Terence. 

Terence. — Right you are. 

William. — In the kindling line. 

Terence.— <Zo^\ an’ kin’lin’. But ye’ll not be 
needin’ them. 

William.— This is no hour for jesting. I 
have advice for you. 

9 


130 


MORTAL LIPS. 


Terence . — Fll lift the hankercheef off your face to 
aid yer spakin’. 

William . — At your peril! Moisten my lips with 
the liquid you held there a moment since. What is 
the name of the cordial ? 

Terence. — \Obeyingl\ It’s — be jabers 1 he’s fin- 

ished it. He’s the ghost of a sponge ! 

William. — I feel easier now. List ; are your teeth 
chattering? Your name is Terence — 

Terence. — At your sarvice. 

William. — You love a maiden ; beware ! 

Terence . — Mary McGuire, housekeeper below here. 
In a fortnight she’ll be Mrs. Terence — 

William. — \In his natural voicel\ You lie, you 
penny coal-dealer! 

Terence . — Is it the loie you give me ? Then take 
— begorra, what’s this ? 

William . — Heavens! am I dead after all ? Teddy, 
stand here between us, as you value your soul. 

{Enter AUGUST, dressed in the garb of Satan ; a red 
cloak thrown over his shoulders^ horns on his 
head^ and a tail lashing out behind. '\ 

Terence . — Make pace wid him, poor speerit ; I’m 
off. I’ll burn a candle for ye come Sunday. 


A/A/^ V INTERL UDE. 


31 


William, — \Catching him by the arml\ Don’t go, 
Teddy ; be a man ! Lie down — down here by me, and 
the thing may not see us. 

Tere7ice. — Faith, the owld gentleman has eyes in 
his tail. Let go me arrum, ye divil, or I’ll be guilty 
of strikin’ the dead. 

William. — Don’t go, Teddy, don’t go! Crouch 
down! Too late! it sees us. Make the cross afore 
him ! Avaunt ! To the pit ! Oh, murder, his eyes 
are two coals! 

August, — [Advancing upon them.'] Wozu der Larm? 

Terence. — What’s that he says ? Don’t look at me ; 
there’s your man — 

William. — Shut up, you noisy fool ! What do you 
tell him that for ? 

Terence. — Hands off, Satan; you don’t want me! 
It’s Terence, the poor divil that sells coals by the 
bushel — 

August. — Wozu der Larm? 

Terence. — Let go my arrum, as he bids ye. 

William. — Is that what he says? Then it’s all up 
with me ! 

[August advances, lays hold of William by the feet, 
and pitches him head foremost on the grassl] 


132 


MORTAL LIPS. 


August. — \Reciting7\ Ich habe doch recht. 

William. — {Rising a7id brandishhig his fistsl\ I 
won’t take that from the devil or any man. Come on, 
and let’s see where you come from. Who sent you 
here ? 

August. — {In his natural voicel\ I comes of mine 
own free vills. 

William. — Why, Ted, it’s Dutchy; it’s August! 
Let’s give him a brush. Take the tail, while I pum- 
mel this end. At him, Teddy; make him eat his own 
brimstone ! 

August. — Hellup! Hellupl! Id vas all a choke. 
Gif me up ; I harm nopody. 

Terence. — I’m achin’ to kill the divil, now I find he’s 
not Irish. 

William. — Don’t kill him, Teddy. What should we 
do with the body? 

August. — Don’t gill me ! Id vas all a choke of mine 
frau, Mary. 

Terence.— Hit him agin. Here’s another twist to 
his tail. She’s no frow of yours, Dutchman ! What 
be ye screamin’ for.^^ No one can hear ye. 

{Enter PATRICK McNamara, with two other Police- 
men.'] 


MAI^Y^S INTERL UDE. 


133 


Patrick.~\V\\\ ye listen to the row of them? A 
shindy in the graveyard ! Come out o’ this ! Terence 
McGinnis, s’ help me! I’m ashamed o’ ye, Teddy, 
drinkin’ in the graveyard. 

Terence. — [^Sheepishly.'] I was wakin’ the corpse 

here. 

Patrick. — It^s mad he is. And young Smith, what 
are you doin’ here ? 

William. — Oh, that’s all right. I’m not carryin’ off 
a tombstone. 

Patrick.— [Examining AUGUST.] The Dutchman, 
too. Been to a masquerade ball, Sauer-kraut ? 

August. — [Dazedly l\ Wozu der Larm? 

Patrick . — My arm is it? Here it is, and a stick wid 
it. They’re all clean mad. Ye can go back to your 
beat, boys [to the other policemen^ ; I can take care o’ 
the three o’ them, if they walk along peaceable. 

[Exeunt two Policemenl] 

Terence . — Where are ye takin’ me ? 

Patrick . — To the station-house, to keep ye from 
catchin’ cold. 

Terence . — Sure ye wouldn’t lock up an ould friend. 

Patrick. — It’s me duty, not mesilf. Here’s the gatfe. 
An’ how did you boys get inside ? Sure, it’s easier to 


134 


MORTAL LIPS. 


get in than to get out, as we say of the station-house. 
Here we stand in the street, an’ I give to each man o’ 
ye a choice — to spend the night in the cage, coolin’ yer 
love-sick brains, or to dance wid the best fut foremost 
at my weddin’ come Sunday fortnight. 

William. — The dance is good enough for me. 

August. — Come, take a peer. 

Terence. — Is it Bridget Blanigan, belike ? 

[Mary and her father have been in the shadow of the 
gate. They move forward.^ 

Mary. — It’s Mary McGuire. Sure, Terence, you’ll 
forgive the Mary you’ve known for so long. Mr. Wil- 
liam, you’ll find when I lave me place, that I’ve spoke 
a good word for you there ; and Mr. August, I’ve had 
it on me conscience to confess that I’ve no voice for 
singin’ at all. 

Garry. — No more than a worrum. Cheer up, byes ! 
Patrick has promised to pay back the bit money ye 
lent me, as well as to care fer the ould man all his 
life. So if the girrul has disappinted ye, it was her 
duty as a daughter to save ould Garry thrubble by 
takin’ a husband on the force. 

Mary . — Whisht, father ! we must be goin’ ! Gintle- 
men, ye have lightened my heart by partin’ widout 


MA A’ Y ’6' INTERL UDE, 


135 


anger, and if each has the mate he desarves, she’ll be 
finer an’ rosier than Mary McGuire. Good night, an’ 
me blessin ’ ! Are ye cornin’, Patrick ? 

[Curtain.] 


A LAND BREEZE 


The characters have already been introduced to the reader. 



A LAND BREEZE. 

IN THREE SCENES. 


Scene I. passes in the dining-room of the Grand View Hotel. 

[Mr. and Mrs. Vane at a table set for six persons.'] 
Mrs. Vane . — We are the first down, as I told you 
we should be. What a good appetite you have ! 

Mr. Vane . — Should have; I eat once a day. Coffee 
and bread for breakfast, bread and milk for luncheon ; 
ought to be hungry for dinner. 

Mrs. Vane . — Is New York under a famine? 


137 


38 


MORTAL LIPS. 


Mr. Vane.— Humphl Why is the table set for six? 
Have you met any new young men ? 

Mrs. Vane. — I wish I had for Miss Adae’s sake ; she 
needs brightening up. 

Mr. Vane. — Why? She isn’t married, 

Mrs. Vane. — What a bear you are ! Charles, isn’t 
that Mr. Solder — Julius Mathews’ friend, you know? 
Of course it is. Signal to him. 

Mr. Vane. — {Obeying^ What for, Clara? 

Mrs. Vane. — Two reasons. One is myself and the 
other is Miss Adae. 

[Phil comes up.] 

We are charmed to see you, Mr. Solder. Won’t you 
dine at our table ? Oh, there is plehty of room — this 
chair by me. When did you arrive? 

Phil. — I came down by the five-o’clock boat. Mrs. 
Vane, sea air is doing what Holy Writ incredulously 
queries about. 

Mrs. Vane. — Improving my looks? That is an ill- 
turned compliment. 

Phil. — Painting the lily. How are you, Mr. Vane ? 
Mr. Vane. — As well as I can be — away frorq home. 

[Miss Adae is shown to her place. She starts on seeing 
Phil.] 



# 






140 


MORTAL LIPS. 


Mrs. Vane. — Isn’t your mother going to join us? 
Our party has been agreeably enlarged, as you see, 
Miss Adae. Allow me to present Mr. Solder. Miss 
Adae, Mr. Solder. But you have met before? 

Miss Adae. — When did you come down, Mr. Solder? 

Phil. — Last month. I mean to-day, by the five 
o’clock boat. 

Mrs. Vane. — \Laiighingl\ How funny! You were 
thinking of something else. 

Mr. Vane. — Perhaps he was jilted last month — eh, 
Solder? 

Mrs. Vane. — [Hastily.] Why, Charles ! I hope you 
will stay, Mr. Solder, and admire the place and convert 
my husband. He does not care for the shore, and 
I brought him here almost by violence, instead of 
meekly accompanying him as usual to my mother’s 
place near Stamford. Shall you stay long ? 

Phil. — I cannot tell : business may call me back at 
any moment. 

Mrs. Vane. — Oh, business! How I envy men that 
infallible excuse, always available and negotiable! 
When men are dissatisfied with a place or a person 
they are never at a loss to get away ; but let a woman 
choose anything rashly, such as a summer resort, she 
must stay the time allotted or devise a hundred ex- 


A LAND BREEZE. 


I4I 

cuses — the climate, the bathing, the company, her 
health ; she has a long roundabout route to retreat. 
However good the reason may be for changing her 
mind, because it isn’t business the world calls it fickle- 
ness. 

Phil. — You have used the strong word, Mrs. Vane — 
fickleness ! It dominates business and all things. 
Don’t you think so, Miss Adae? 

Miss Adae. — Pardon me; I was not listening. 

Phil. — Do you hear, Mrs. Vane? What man would 
hazard that reply ? 

Mr. Vane. — Fol-de-rol. I would ; I wasn’t listening 
either. 

Mrs. Vane — Charles! But no matter. Are you 
going. Miss Adae ? 

Miss Adae. — If you will excuse me; mamma is not 
well. 

Mrs. Vane. — Won’t you join us on the piazza? 

Miss Adae. — I think we cannot to-night; but it is 
as mamma pleases Au revoir ! 

[As Miss Adae passes, Phil rises and turns to herl\ 

pjiil — [In a low voice. May I see you for a mo- 
ment, Clara? 

Miss Adae. — I fear not, Mr. Solder. 


142 


MORTAL LIPS. 


[Phil resmnes his seat.'] 

Mrs, Vane. — If, like me, you do not care for coffee, 
Mr. Solder, we might go out to watch the moon rise ; 
Charles will join us soon. 

Mr. Vane.—Yds^o'cv me; I am ready to accompany 
you now. 

Mrs. Vane. — That is nice. While you light your 
cigars, I will run up stairs for a wrap. I won’t be two 
minutes. 


Scene IL — The beach in front of the hotel. 

[Phil Solder p.acing back and forth: at a second- 
story window Clara Adae appears.] 

Clara. — Is it you, Mr. Solder? 

Phil. — Yes, Miss Adae. 

Clara. — Won’t you let me excuse myself now for 
not coming down this evening ? I do not wish to 
appear unfriendly. Mother and I have just finished 
packing; we leave in the morning, 

Phil. — Going away ? 

Clara. — To-morrow morning; so good-night is good- 
bye. 

Phil. — I would have spared you the trouble. I go 
back to New York to-morrow. 


A LAND BREEZE. 


143 


Clara. — Oh, you are mistaken. 

Phil. — Am I never to see you again alone ? Clara, I 
must speak to you. I have spent my time since I 
saw you last pondering on what I should say when 
we met, and now you refuse to listen to me. 

Clara. — Of what benefit is talking to either of us ? 
I do not refuse to listea to you ; but do not speak of 
that ! 

Phil. — How can you ask me to be silent? You 
refuse to listen to me by prohibiting that subject. 
I can’t speak on any other. 

Clara. — You need not tell me again you found out 
your — your mistake in good time. . I understood you 
before. 

Phil. — Heaven knows how you understood what I 
never said. I am forced to think you chose to put 
that construction on my words. Clara, do you know 
what rumor brings me here ? Tell me it is false — tell 
me you are not engaged to Granger ! You can never 
have promised to marry a man twice your age ! 

Clara. — I beg you, Philip, to speak low ; my mother 
is in the next room waiting for me : I can only say 
good-bye. 

Phil. — Good-bye forever ? 

Clara. — F ore ver. 


% 



4 



A LAND BREEZE. 


145 

[Mr. Vane puts his head out of the third-story window^ 
over Miss Adae’s roomT^ 

Phil. — Then the report is true. It cannot be. I love 
you, and I will not lose you. Tell me it is not true! 

Mr. Vane. — \Overheadl\ Oho ! this is mighty enter- 
taining. 

Phil.—VW make it false ; I’ll follow you and save 
you from him. 

Mr. Vane. — [fPo himself That’s the right talk, 
young man ; she’ll weaken. 

Clara. — Don’t talk so wildly, and don’t interfere in 
what is no concern of yours. 

Phil. — It is my concern ; I repeat, I am determined 
not to lose you — 

Mr. Vane. — Spoken like a major. Keep it up. 

Phil. — No man shall come between us — 

Mr. Vane. — Exactly what I said and still say to 
Clara. 

PlUl. — I’ll prevent him with my life. What is my 
life anyway without you ? 

Mr. Vane . — [ Waving his cigarl\ That’s it, that’s it. 
Now say something about drowning yourself. I did. 
And — hee, hee, the ocean is just behind you. I was 
like that. All lovers are alike. 


10 


MORTAL LIPS, 


146 

— I say it’s absolutely worthless, and I swear — 

Clara,— Yow will compel me to treat you like a 
stranger. Cannot we be friends? Be sensible and 
generous. 

Mr, Vane —{Peering down.] What’s she saying? 

I can’t hear, but I wager she is giving in. 

pjiil — I can be generous with everything of mine 
except you. 

Clara. — Most men are generous with what is not 
their own. 

Phil. — You are mine, Clara! 

Mr. Vane. — {Leaning farther out of the window.] 
Clara 1 did he call her Clara? 

Clara. — Listen to me, Mr. Solder. You know well 
that I once esteemed you highly, but even when we 
met oftenest it was apparent that we were not quite 
congenial. Then one day you asked me if I thought 
marriage to be the highest sphere of woman, or if I 
did not agree with your opinion that in life as in 
literature a woman lost her identity by taking a man’s 
name. I construed your question as every girl would i 
construe it. By thinking it over I have come to 
accept your view ; what I write now I sign with my 
own name. 

Phil . — I have thought too, and come round to your 


A LAND BREEZE. 


147 


idea. George Sand and George Eliot are my favorite 
authors now. 

Clara, — Then we are still of different opinions. 

Phil , — There is only one opinion about the fact that 
I love you. Are you angry when I tell you ? 

Clara, — I would rather you did not shout it to the 
whole beach. 

Phil, — I don’t care who hears me. I am not 
ashamed to love you. I have told everybody so but 
you. I should have told you so on the unlucky day 
you refer to, but you refused to hear ; a hundred 
times since, but you avoided me. Now I know why. 
It wasn’t because I attacked women-writers ; it wasn’t 
because you despised me for the role George made me 
play. Shall I tell you why you avoid me ? I am poor, 
and he is rich. You can’t give up luxury. That’s the 
whole story. 

Mr, Vane, — S^Leaning overl\ Another man in the 
case ! A reg’lar opera ! 

Clara, — Mr. Solder ! I can’t talk any more. Good- 
night. 

Phil, — Don’t go, Clara! A moment more. Clara, 
forgive me ! 

Mr, Vane, — {Brandishing his cigar, He does call 
her Clara ! Clara who ? 


148 


MORTAL LIPS. 


Phil. — One word, I implore you ! if not for my sake 
then for the sake of that old man. He thinks you 
love him. Tell him it is not so ; don’t deceive him 
longer : if he is not wholly sordid he will give you 
up. 

Mr. Vane. — \He has been leaning far out trying to 
locate the room beneath him. He jams his cigar-head 



down on the window case l\ Give her up! Give up 
the mother of my child ! The man’s a villain. 

Phil. — Confess you love me — you do love me, Clara ! 
In a hundred ways more eloquent than speech you’ve 
told me so. 

Mr. Vane. — She’s told him so a hundred times ! 
Ah! 

Phil. — Tell him so too, or if it is embarrassing let 
me tell him. I will say we have loved each other 


A LAND BREEZE. 


149 


long: I will say how foolishly we fell out. Shall I go 
to hina, Clara ? I could laugh to think how I shall 
save you from that suspicious old man. 

Mr . Vane. — My wife’s words a thousand times. 
Don’t bother about coming up, young man ; I’ll come 
down to you ! A moment— she’s speaking again. I 
wish I could hear what she says. 

Phil. — Ah, Clara, we shall be happy again, shall we 
not ? Happy as we used to be ? Do you still keep 
sacred that tiny sofa only big enough for two, that 
stood under the nopal ? 

Mr. Vane. — [Picking up his extinguished cigar and 
drawing 07 i it furiously\. I recognize that sofa. I’ll 
burn it to-morrow. 

Phil. — Why don’t you answer, Clara ? Are you 
still there? 

Clara. — Oh, do not speak so loud — softly, or I 
must go in. I cannot guess where the rumor you 
have heard started from. Do you really care so much 
for me, Philip ? We do not go away till late to- 
morrow. 

Phil. — Will you be on the beach by nine? You 
have made me so happy. Oh, my life ! I knew you 
couldn’t care for that old man — 

Mr. Vane. — Old man ! I ought to have been down 


150 ' MORTAL LIPS. 

there long ago. Old man ! I’ll confront Clara at 
once. 

[//> dashes window dozvn, A soft scream., and the win- 
dow below closes. Then silence^ 


Scene III. passes in the corridor of the Grand View Hotel. . ’ 

[Mr. Vane discovered, knocking at a door.'] 

Mr. Vane. — Clara! 

Mrs. Vane. — \Within?[ Yes. Wait till I light the 
gas. [She opens the door in her robe de chambre?^ 
What is the matter, Charles ? 

Mr. Vane. — [Struggling to command his voicei] 
Matter, madam ! Is that the dress in which you re- 
ceive company? 

Mrs. Vane. — I’ve had no company. I put it on for 
coolness. Do you object ? 

Mr. Vane. — [Grasping the door knob.] Aren’t you 
ashamed to look me in the eye, Clara Vane ? I’m an 
old man, and sordid, and you’ve told him a hundred 
times that you love him! Oh, this is worse than I 
suspected ! 

Mrs. Vane. — [Preparing to close the door.] I don’t 
know what you’re talking about. Are you mad ? 


4 




152 


MORTAL LIPS. 


Mr, Vane, — Yes, I’m mad. Who wouldn’t be with 
my provocation ? Leave the door alone, madam ; I 
haven’t finished yet. I won’t either till I’ve unmasked 
you ! 

Mrs, Vane. — What is it Charles ? I never saw you 
like this before. What have you heard ? 

Mr, Vane. — {Hissing^ Madam, I’ve heard all ! 

Mrs, Vane. — Oh, you’ve been drinking. Charles, I 
beg you to go calmly to your* room : don’t alarm the 
house and scandalize me. Go to bed, and we’ll talk it 
over quietly in the morning. 

Mr, Vane. — No we won’t. We will talk it over 
now. Let me in, I -say ! 

Mrs. Vane. — Never, in your condition ! 

{She nearly succeeds in closing the door. Mr. Vane 
tries to calm himself and whispers through the 
crackl\ 

Mr. Vane . — Clara, don’t drive me to extremity. 
I’ve been terribly shocked. I must speak to you at 
once or do something desperate. 

Mrs. Vane. — {Throiving door open.'] You’ve heard 
from mother that baby Clara is sick, and you want to 
reproach me for leaving her. I was Xyrong, I own it ! 
I own it ! Tell me the worst at once. 


A LAND BREEZE. 


153 


Mr. Vane. — [Planting himself on the thresholdl\ 
The child's all right. What I have to say is not 
alarming, it's amusing. It's about Mr. Solder; he 
hasn't gone to bed. 

Mrs. Vane. — HasnT he? That oughtn’t to keep 
you up. 

Mr. Vane. — No, I knocked at his door a moment 
since, and seeing it open, I stepped inside and found 
him gone. 

Mrs. Vane. — I suppose he's on the beach. 

Mr. Vane. — I suppose so. 

Mrs. Vane. — Wherever he is, I think you may rest 
easy. Young men don't retire with the regularity 
of married men. 

Mr. Vane. — Oh, don’t they? Who told you that? 

Mrs. Vane. — Charles, what have you come to say ? 

Mr. Vane. — Oh, yes, my story. It’s deuced amus- 
ing. You see I was sitting at my window finishing a 
cigar, when I overheard a conversation between Mr. 
Solder and a person of the opposite sex. He made a 
passionate declaration, and she — ha, ha !— she threw 
him over. 

Mrs. Vane. — You don't tell me ! I wonder who she 
was ? 

Mr. Vane. — [Grimlyl\ I wonder. 


154 


MORTAL LIPS. 


Mrs. Van}. — Suppose it made him desperate ? He 
may have gone and thrown himself into the ocean. 
Charles, it is 'your duty to look for him. Oh, isn’t it 
interesting ? 

Mr. Vane. — Very interesting. 

Mrs. Vane. — He may have gone back to New York. 

Mr. Vane. — He will have to swim, as there’s no 
night boat. 

Mrs. Vane. — And that’s what excited you so ? I 
never gave you credit for so much sentiment. 

Mr. Vane. — {Aside Are all women liars? {Aloudi\ 
Clara ! 

Mrs. Vane. — Well. 

Mr. Vane. — Coming along the corridor, I heard 
voices in your room. 

Mrs. Vane. — Voices? I am alone. 

Mr. Vane. — I heard your voice. 

Mrs. Vane. — No doubt ; I was praying. 

Mr. Vane. — My God, Clara ! are you utterly shame- 
less ? 

Mrs. Vane. — {With jiashmg ejyes.] Charles Vane, 
what do you mean? How dare you speak to me like 
that ? Ah ! I comprehend ; this is more of your 
unreasonable jealousy, from which I have always suf- 
fered. You think it is I who have driven Mr. Solder to 


A LAND BREEZE. 


155 


suicide ; you think it is I who threw him over ! That's 
the meaning of your remark about my dress. Where 
have you been eavesdropping, sir? 

Mr. Vane. — At my window. I saw him on the 
beach looking up at yours. I could hear all he said, 
but I could not hear your replies. Tell me what you 
said when he urged you to deceive me no longer — to 
confess all to me and to beg me to give you up. 
Answer me. 

Mrs. Vane. — I will not answer. 

Mr, Vane. — You will not ? You will ; do you know 
who I am, madam ? 

Mrs. Vane. — Are you sure it was Mr. Solder who 
said all that to me ? 

Mr. Vane. — Oh, now you want to shield him ? 
That’s the first step. Yes, madam, I am as sure of 
him as I am that yours was the window to which he 
addressed his vows. 

Mrs. Vane. — So you’re sure of that ! And you say 
Mr. Solder was on the beach ? 

Mr. Vane. — Of course he was. Can I doubt my 
own eyes? 

Mrs. Vane. — I can make you doubt them in a min- 
ute. A word first. You remember what I told you. 
I am weary of spending my life in brushing away your 


156 MORTAL LIPS. 

doubts. I am weary of breathing an atmosphere of 
suspicion. I would rather separate from you at 
any cost than to endure it longer. Yes, I am in ear- 
nest. I give you your choice : believe me when I tell 
you I have had no communication with any person, 
man or woman, on the beach to-night, and I will try 
to forget this ridiculous scene. Doubt me, enter this 
room and convince yourself, and I will go home to my 
mother to-morrow. Which will you choose ? 

Mr. Vane. — [Doggedly^ Til go in. 

Mrs. Vane. — [Stepping aside. 1 You dare? Perse- 

vere and take the consequences ! 

[Mr. Vane enters the room ; she remains at the door."] 

Mr. Vane. — [Within.] This is strange! I had for- 
gotten that you changed your room to-day. This 
room doesn’t look on the beach at all : the window 
gives on the court ! 

[Me comes back looking very crestfallen.] 

I am a fool ! I — I — don’t know what to say for 
myself. Clara, forgive me ! 

Mrs. Vane. — [Waving him out i] Are you satisfied ? 
Then, good-night. 


A LAND BREEZE. 


157 


Mr, Vane, — Clara! Don’t send me away so. Let 
me explain. 

Mrs, Vane, — {Shutting the doorP[ Permit me to 
retire : it is late. To-morrow I shall join my mother. 
No, don’t speak. I’m worn out. Good-night. [She 
locks the door,'] 

Mr, Vane, — {Beating on itl] Clara I 
{Enter Philip.] 

Phil. — Hello ! you up too. Horribly stuffy in these 
tiny bedrooms. I’ve been out on the beach for a 
breath of air. 

Mr, Vane, — {Retreating.] It is hot — a land breeze 
— my wife prefers them — think I’ll go to bed. Good- 
night ! • 

Phil. — {Looking after him.] Queer old boy that ! 
I wonder if he sometimes takes a drop too much. 


[Curtain.] 


THREE GUARDSMEN. 


Introducing two new characters^ Columbia College boys 

John Sylvester, 

* Harry Wallace. 


THREE GUARDSMEN. 


IN TWO ACTS. 


ACT 1. 

Scene I. — Fifty-ninth Street, New York. 

Phil. — {Lifting his hat.'] Good afternoon, Mrs. 
Vane. 

Mrs. Vane. — Why, Mr. Solder ! I thought you 
were still at the shore. How are Mr. and Mrs. Math- 
ews ? When did you see them last ? 

Phil . — If I may walk along with you, I’ll answer 
every one of your questions. 

Mrs. Vane . — With pleasure. It is so grateful to 
meet a person who is cheerful, nowadays. All the 
world is so depressing. 

Phil. — Heigho ! That’s world-wide flattery. But 
what’s the matter? Why are you in town? Oh, 
excuse me — the little one is not ill ? 

Mrs. Vane . — She is very well, and still in the coun- 

159 


i6o 


MORTAL LIPS. 


try. Won’t you beg Mrs. Mathews to come and see 
me soon ? No, don’t ; I will write to her myself. 

PhiL — I would carry your message gladly. 

Mrs. Vane . — Thank you. Why are you laughing? 

Phil . — Look in this window at that old pewter 
mug. 

Mrs. Vane . — Is that amusing ? It isn’t pretty. 

Phil. — No, but read the card : “ This tankard was 
once the property of Brother Jonathan Trumbull, first 
Governor of Connecticut,” and then listen to the true 
story. 

Mrs. Vane. — Isn’t the inscription true ? 

Phil . — Not a bit of truth in it. While we stand 
here, pretending to admire the authenticated treasures 
in this window, I will take you behind the scenes of 
an antiquity shop. That tankard, until yesterday, - 
was the property of two young friends of mine, Col- 
umbia College boys. I don’t know where they got it, 
neither do they. Every year their parents decorate 
their rooms with an abundance of bric-a-brac, and 
every year Athos and Porthos — so they are nick- 
named — empty them and carry the little collection to 
the shops. This year they reserved that mug till the 
last, because they believed it had no commercial 
value : yet Athos has given it a fictitious one and 


THREE GUARDSMEN. 


l6l 


disposed of it by some such tale as the inscription 
indicates. Isn’t it funny ? 

Mrs. Vane. — No; I think it horrid. The poor pur- 
chaser will be deceived. 

Phil. — I’ll wager the shopkeeper wasn’t. 

Mrs. Vane . — You should not laugh at those boys, 
Mr. Solder. You are older, and it encourages 
them. 

Phil . — On the contrary, they call me one of them- 
selves. I am D’Artagnan to the other two. 

Mrs. Vane . — If such a habit grows one cannot tell 
what it may result in. Perhaps the confidence men 
began so. 

Phil . — Every man is a confidence man, or the dupe 
of one — either being taken in or taking somebody else 
in. 

Mrs. Vane . — You are jesting, but if it were true I 
would rather be one of the taken in. Oh, Mr. Solder, 
why cannot people have more confidence in each 
other? Why cannot men trust more implicitly in 
men and in women? I am so weary of continual 
explanations. 

Phil. — Why, Mrs. Vane! 

Mrs. Vane.—Yesy this is silly talk for the street. 
But I go in here. Good-day, Mr. Solder; I’m so 


II 


MORTAL LIPS. 


162 

pleased to have seen you. And tell those college 
boys to be more stable and economical, will you ? 

Phil. — I promise. But can I do nothing for you ? 
It will be dark in half an hour ; can I accompany you 
home, or is Mr. Vane to meet you ? 

Mrs. Va/te.—Thsinks, but I am not going home, but 
to my mother’s house quite near. Good-bye. 

[Phil lifts his hai^ and Mrs. Vane enters a shopl\ 


Scene II. — Fifty-seventh Street in New York, two hours later. 

[John Sylvester and Harry Wallace sauntering.'] 
John. — How are the funds, Athos ? 

Harry. — Haven’t seen quotations lately. 

John. — Look in your pockets. 

Harry. — No theatre to-night, my Porthos : the 
Governor Trumbull tankard has almost disappeared. 
I have eighty-six cents and a papal coin of two soldi, 
the last not negotiable. 

John . — Let’s spend it for marrons ; they last long- 
est. 

Harry . — Shoot your sweet tooth, Porthy. If I was 
going on twenty I’d vote for beer. 

John . — If you like. Shall we go back to the room 
for a growler? 


THREE GUARDSMEN. 


163 

Harry . — And find Xenophon lying in wait for us ? 
I feel like putting ever so many stadia between him 
and me to-night. Besides, I have a scheme that is 
immense. 

John . — Fm tired of your hare-brained schemes that 
put a fellow in a funk and end in nothing. What is 
it this time? robbery? 

Harry. — No, romance. Last year I used to chum 
a little with a fellow who lived on Fifty-seventh Street, 
and going and coming by night I was always surprised 
to meet so many ladies unattended. The fact is. 
Fifty-seventh is a very quiet street, and long freedom 
from molestation has emboldened the fair ones to act 
as if they were in Cambridge. Well, suppose one of 
these adventuresome ladies were to be accosted by 
a rude man on this quiet street, and suppose I hap- 
pened to be near at hand ? What follows ? The lady 
calls for help : I fly to her rescue. I attack the 
villain, who will be dressed like a gentleman ; he 
makes his escape muttering threats of vengeance. The 
lady of course hears him, and her personal fears melt 
into fears for her brave defender. I laugh his threats 
to scorn, offer my arm to the exhausted pigeon, now 
soothing her and now admiring her courage. Next 
day the real fun commences. I know all about 


164 MORTAL LIPS. 

women : all women are romantic and read novels. 
So I go to her house to inquire if her health has 
suffered by the fright. I tell her I have fought with 
her persecutor. Who was wounded ? Who but her 
defender, who wears his arm dangling in a sling. 
“Alas!” she will cry, “you are wounded, and it is 
for me 1 ” Then she immediately falls in love with 
me. See ? 

John . — I suppose you could arrange all this on the 
stage. The pedestrians of Fifty-seventh Street are 
not in your pay. 

Harry . — One is; I mean to pay her in love. This 
requires but three people : the lady whose life I 
shall save, myself, and you. 

John. — Me? No, you don’t. I don’t want to finish 
up in the station-house. 

Harry . — There comes the cold shower. Your part 
is the simplest. You will be the villain. All you 
have to do is to run up by the side of the lady and 
mutter some words — never mind what ; say them in 
Latin if you can ; I’ll join in at once with “ Unhand 
her, villain!” Then you threaten me for all you’re 
worth and make off. The rest is mine. 

John . — I have the thankless part, as usual. 


THREE GUARDSMEN-. 1 65 

Harry, — Why, Til thank you. You, too, my noble 
Porthy, shall be a savior ; you shall save me ! 

John, — What if a policeman — 

Harry. — Nonsense, there are none in New York 
after dark. Here we are in Fifty-seventh Street, and 
there comes a woman. Step back into the shadow. 
See, she s crossing the street. After her like a cat. 
The moon is hidden, no one about, everything favors 
us. [John runs along the black street ; Harry fol- 
lows more slowly.] A scream ! Yes, by Jove, he’s 
done it ! Now for my part. 


ACT II. 

{^Passes at the house of Mrs. Vane’s mother on Lexing- 
ton Avenue, near Fifty-seventh Street.] 

Mrs. Vane. — {JHusingl] If I could feel I’ve done 
right ! My mind misgives me. Why doesn’t mother 
answer my letter ? Will she take Charles’s part ? I 
put my case strongly in the letter I wrote her to-day. 
I left Charles to teach him that an honest woman may 
not remain in the same house with a suspicious hus- 
band and preserve her self-respect. The lesson lasts 
for three days, and then I go out, meet Charles, and 
spoil everything. I was too startled to know my own 


MORTAL LIPS. 


I66 

husband. I cried, Let me alone, sir ; how dare you 
touch me?” Then that young gentleman, thinking 
I had been insulted — by my own husband ! — came up, 



called him blackguard, and offered me his arm. I 
accepted it. Oh, Charles will be furious! — he will 
never forgive me ! 


THREE GUARDSMEN. 


167 


[Enter maid, Mr. Vane behind her.'] 

Maid. — Ma’am, here is — 

Mr. Vane. — Your husband. 

Mrs. Vane. — You here ! 

Mr. Vane. — Yes, madam, I am here. You may go, 
girl. [Exit maid.^ Four days ago they told me this 
house was closed. Perhaps you would like to know 
how I discovered your retreat ? It wasn’t difficult. I 
went 4:0 your mother in the country ; she would not 
keep your secret, so distressed is she by your folly. 
Yesterday evening I returned : I saw you on Fifty- 
seventh Street and followed you ; I came up with you, 
prepared to sue for pardon- — to blame myself for what 
had occurred — to forgive and to be forgiven. What 
was my reception? You beat off the first word with 
your umbrella ! 

Mrs. Vane. — I did not recognize you — I was so 
frightened. I thought — 

Mr. Vane. — One moment. I saw more. I stood as 
if turned to stone, when, having beaten your lawful 
husband, you walked away on the arm of another 
man. 

Mrs. Vane. — Whom I never saw before. Believe 
me, Charles — but did you follow us? You saw also 


MORTAL LIPS. 


1 68 

that he left me at the door of this house : he merely 
offered a strange lady protection against what seemed 
an insult. Did you demand an explanation from that 
gentleman when he returned ? Oh, I hope so ! 

Mr. Vane. — {Aside. ^ We shall see if she never saw 
him before. {Aloud^ The explanation was on my 
side, madam. I explained in full to the young gentle- 
man, and he will lie abed getting better of a broken 
arm long enough to understand it. 

Mrs. Vane. — {Admiringly^ Charles, you fought for 
me! {Pityinglyi\ Oh, are you hurt? {Sternly l\ 
Charles, Charles ! what have you done ? You will 
be sent to prison. You have wounded, perhaps killed 
an innocent man. I swear I do not know him. A 
letter to mother ready for the post is up-stairs; I’ll 
send for it ; you shall open it and be convinced. Will 
you go up for it, or shall I send the maid ? 

Mr. Vane.— I will go. No, I won’t. Clara, I have 
been unjust — 

Mrs. Vane. — Do go for the letter. 

Mr. Vane. — I will go. 

{He leaves the room. The Maid enters.'] 

Maid . — A gentleman, ma’am ; here is his card. 

Mrs. Vane. — {Reading card.] Mr. Henry Wallace. 


THREE GUARDSMEN. 1 69 

Who is he ? Tell him I am engaged. \_Sees Harrv, 
who has followed and stands in door., his right arm in a 
sling.'] Oh, is it you, sir ? And your poor arm ? Ah, 
thank God ! your wound is not so grave as he told me. 

Harry. — \Astonished?^ Who told you ? 

Mrs. Vane. — Your adversary, sir. 

Harry. — \Aside^ She’s crazy. \Aloudl\ My 
adversary? Do you know him? 

Mrs. Vane. — Perfectly; he is my husband. 

Harry, — The deuce ! Then the man who accosted 
you last night — 

Mrs. Vane. — Was my husband. And there — there 
he is now ! That is his voice in the hall. Oh, sir, go 
away, do ; what will he think if he finds you here this 
time ? Go ! Go ! 

Harry. — \Nervously7] Certainly, of course. I want 
nothing better than to get out, but how ? 

Mrs. . Vane. — Here — this way — go into the dining- 
room, the door opens on the hall. Go' out softly 
for my sake. 

[As Harry goes into the dining-room Mr. Vane enters 
from the hall.] 

Mr. Vane. — {Raging.] So, madam, you trick me at 
every turn. I had scarcely climbed the stairs when I 


70 


MORTAL LIPS. 


heard a man’s voice in this room. Don’t deny it ! I 
heard him, and I will know who this visitor is. But 
he can’t leave till I’ve seen him. Aha ! I’ve locked 
the hall door ; here is the key, and I’m going — 

Mrs. Vane. — Stop, Charles Vane ! stop where you 
are. Would you have the Baseness to strike a defence- 
less man ? a man whom no one but you has put in 
that condition ? 

Mr. Vane. — What ! is that man here ? 

Mrs. Vane . — Your adversary is here, sir. He came 
with his poor right arm bandaged to tell me not to 
be anxious. And now will you finish your reckless 
work? Go into the dining-room and destroy the man 
who has already suffered so much for my sake, and 
whose name I never knew until I read it on his card. 
You will not ? Then I will call in Mr. Henry Wallace, 
and you may hear what he has to say. 

\She reaches for the bell ; Mr. Vane stays her handl\ 

Mr. Vane. — No, no ; it is not necessary. I believe 
you, Clara ; I never doubted you. I owe the gentle- 
man a thousand apologies, but I prefer to offer them 
when you are not by. Will you please go up-stairs 
while I quietly show him out ? Oh, the dickens ! too 
late ! 


THREE GUARDSMEN. 


i;i 

[Harry throws open the dining-room door^ using both 
hands tn a natural manner. He starts on seeing 
husband a7td wife, and hurriedly puts the left arm 
by 'mistake into the sling.'] 

Harry. — [Stammering.] The door was locked ; I — 
I fear I have lost my way. 

Vane. — [Trying to smile.] Come in, my dear sir; 
everything is explained. [In a lozu voice to Harry.] I 
have told her I broke your arm ; don’t betray me. 
[Aloud.] If you will suggest, Mr. Wallace, how we 
can atone for the pain and annoyance this accident 
has caused you — 

Mrs. Vane. — Hadn’t we better hear Mr. Wallace’s 
account of what occurred last night ? 

Mr. Vane. — [Hastily.] By no means, Clara; why 
linger over a painful theme ? Mr. Wallace already 
understands that you were too frightened last night 
to recognize your own husband. As you have learned 
not to go out alone after dark, the end isn’t so bad 
after all. There are no bones — or, um — just a few 
bones broken. 

Mrs. Vane. — How can you talk so lightly, Charles, 
when you might have deprived this gallant gentleman 
of his life. As it is, you wounded him in his most 


172 


MORTAL LIPS. 


useful member. [Pointing to sling.'] Why, how 
strange ! 

Mr. Vane. — Eh, what’s strange ? 

Mrs. Vane. — A moment since it was his right arm : 
now his left arm is in the sling ! 

Harry. — [Confusedl] Yes, yes, it is my left arm. 
That’s my most useful arm. I’m left-handed. 

Mr. Vane. — To be sure, the gentleman is left- 
handed. Are you sure you have had it carefully 
set ? Let me accompany you to my physician. 

Mrs. Vane. — I begin to understand ; you have 
made a dupe of me. Mr. Vane, when you have a 
satisfactory explanation to offer you will find me in 
the drawing-room. Good-morning, gentlemen. 

[Mrs. Vane makes a haughty bow and goes out.] 

Mr. Vane. — Clara! No, let her go. Between us 
we’ve made a mess of it. But you, young man — I 
should like to break your arm in earnest. What do 
you mean by coming here ? 

[Enter Maid.] 

Maid. — Two gentlemen to see Mr. Vane : Mr. Sol- 
der and Mr. Sylvester. Shall I show them in } 


THREE GUARDSMEH. 


173 


Mr, Vane, — Yes, show ’em in ; show everybody in. 
Ah, Solder ! 

{Enter Phil and John.] 

Phil . — So the young scamp is here. Mr. Vane, I 
hope he has given you no annoyance : this other one 
has told me all about the encounter of last night. I 
recognized you by his description. 

John — Yqs, this is the gentleman who accosted 
that lady — 

Mr. Vane. — {Quickly.'] I remember you ; I remem- 
ber saying something foolish about your being a wit- 
ness to my wife’s walking away with another man. 
Very happy to see you here and to ask you to forget 
it. So these gentlemen are your friends. Solder; then 
they must be mine. 

Phil. — They. are Columbia College youths, and a 
hard pair, I fear. Porthos here was alarmed when 
Athos didn’t come back last night, and as they insist 
on calling me D’Artagnan, to be true to the character 
I was forced to hunt him up. If they have been play- 
ing pranks on you, Mr. Vane, I beg you to forgive 
them. 

Mr. Vane. — Readily. It’s not so long ago since I 
was young myself. There are no bones broken — eh, 


174 


MORTAL LIPS. 


Mr. Wallace ? or tales told, eh, gentlemen ? Come 
into the dining-room ; this is my mother-in law’s house, 
but I may be able to find something on the buffet. 
Lead the way, Athos, is it ?— you have been there 
before. 


[Curtain.] 


THE LITTLE HOUSE IN HARLEM. 


A FIRST APPEARANCE. 


» 




A FIRST APPEARANCE. 


Time : six in the evening of a September day. 

Place: the sitting-room of the Mathewses’ house in Harlem. It is in 
disorder. 

{Enter Phil Solder carrying hat and small valise. 
While removing his gloves he looks around in sur- 
prisel\ 

Phil . — Stupid creature, that new girl of Mrs. Math- 
ews. She didn’t seem to know whether her mistress 

177 


12 


MORTAL LIPS. 


178 

is at home or not. By the look of this room I should 
say she is out. Julius, of course, hasn’t come up 
yet ; he’ll be along in a few minutes now. He can 
ask me to dinner or not as he pleases. When the 
train stopped at 125th Street I jumped off without 
thinking it was so near dinner-time. I must confide 
my happiness to Julius: no one sympathizes with me 
as he does. And Mrs. Mathews, too, how glad she will 
be to know that Clara has at last fixed the day ! Dear 
Clara! My Clara ! I’ll just write her a note while 
waiting for Julius to come in. 

\^He sits at the writing-desk and draws paper and pen 
towards him. He continues to muse.'] 

To think I’ve been in love with Clara Adae for two 
years and am only now going to marry her ! Neither 
of us will shoulder that sinful waste. But everything 
conspired against us, and everybody. If it hadn’t 
been for her brother we might have married last year. 
George is a crotchety fellow, not a bit like his sister. 
But there is nobody like Clara. [A door slams?] 
There’s Julius now. \He listens?] No ; somebody 
else. I shall have time to write a line. \^He writes.] 
“ My own Clara : It seems an age since we parted.” 
[He looks up with a smile.] We said good-bye at nine 


A FIRST APPEARANCE. 


179 


o’clock this morning, but it’s true all the same. 
[Writes again.'] “All day on the train I thought of 
my darling and longed to return to her : I only kept 
from boarding the upbound express by reflecting that 



this short absence would hasten the hour when we 
shall be together always.” [He stops writing and 
says :] To-day is the fifteenth of September. On 
the fifteenth of October we are to be married at Grace 


l8o MORTAL LIPS. 

Churcli. Won’t Julius be surprised ? But that’s the 
way I do things. [ Writes again7\ “ Can’t you let 
me see some of the millinery people for you ? I will 
impress them with the necessity to hurry. Don’t 
reply that I have too much to do as it is, for how can 
I get through the next month unless I’m too busy to 
think? Yet I couldn’t be too busy to think of — my 
bride ! Oh, it thrills me deliciously to write those 
words — to speak them. How new, sweetheart, how 
new and sacred they sound ! ” 

\A cry rings through the house. Hurrying footsteps. 
Phil starts up.'] 

What’s that peculiar noise? Can it be that Mrs. 
Mathews is sick? If she is, surely that block of a girl 
would tell me, I suppose Biddy has smashed some 
crockery and yelled. Now she’s as still as a mouse. 
If Mrs. Mathews comes in I’ll make as if I hadn’t 
heard it. Clara and I will never employ a stupid 
Irish girl. Where shall we live ? We are agreed it 
would be foolish to accept Mrs. Adae’s invitation 
to live with her ; three families in one house, however 
large, would be sure to come to grief. I am good- 
natured and Clara is an angel of sweetness, but we 
must preserve those qualities for our own little home. 


A FIRST APPEARANCE. 1 8 1 

I think it would be sensible to buy a place out here, 
and as soon as Julius comes in I’ll ask him what he 
paid for this house. Ten thousand would be a steep 
figure. I could make one big payment, and the rest 
in easy instalments. I could do it in two years. Let 
me see— what did I draw last year out of the Dra- 
matic Press? There are my shares of stock, they’re 
looking up. If I sold I could easily provide for the 
first payment. Meantime, why can’t I sweep some- 
thing off the Street? I’ll just touch Julius as to a 
deal when he comes in. Wonder where he is? \He 
consults his watch.'] After seven! Strange! Julius 
is always home early. However, I’ve got my letter 
to write. How time gallops when I’m with Clara, 
even on paper ! [He reads over what he has written?] 
“ how new and sacred they sound ! Darling, I wish 
we were to be married in Lenox. Then, like mated 
birds, we could come home together from the mount- 
ains. If our nest had been ready I should have 
insisted. Of course, I don’t mean insisted. Can you 
think where I am writing? But you’ll see Mrs. 
Mathews’s monogram. I came straight here from the 
train to ask Julius about one of these pretty houses. 
I am going to buy one for you — ” [He looks up^ and 
a cloud settles on his face?] Is that quite the truth ? 


MORTAL LIPS. 


182 

I am going to try to buy one, but oughtn’t I to tell 
Clara my circumstances in plain words ? She knows 
I’m not rich, but she doesn’t know how really poor I 
am. I shall have to rake every cent together to make 
the first payment, and must sell my share of the 
paper. If I do I may not be retained on the staff, 
and without salary for pressing needs, how can I 
furnish the house, or get myself a correct outfit ? Of 
course Rock will carry me, but I don’t mean ever 
again to go heavily into debt. What shall I need ? 
First a frock suit ; mine’s rusty, and if ours is a morn- 
ing wedding — absurd, Phil ! who would be married 
in old clothes? Well, a frock suit — pi,it down $115 ; 
a new swallow-tail, $125 ; a suit to travel in — cheviot, 
I think, $65 , four trousers and a morning coat, $95 ; 
what does that foot up ? — $400. That’s not much ; I 
couldn’t decently do with less. I’ll give Rock a hun- 
dred on the old bill. As for shirts, it’s economy to go 
in for them, and I’ll get two round dozen of the best. 
Luckily I haven’t opened that box of pajamas I 
bought in the spring. Oh, I’m all right ; if Clara is as 
economical as I am, we shall pull through. What am 
I talking about ? My wife shan’t lack anything ; I’ll do 
the economizing myself. I’ll cut two trousers out of 
this memorandum — that brings it down $25, and I’ll 


A FIRST APPEARANCE. 


183 


give Rock only $50 on account. [Begins to write 
again.'\ “ or would my own girl prefer to take an 
apartment in town ? I know of one I could get in the 
Belgravia.” [Reads this over and remarks^ Deuce 
take it, I don’t want that apartment; the rent is 
extravagant, and it costs more to fit up one of those 
homeless flats than a house. I would rub that out, 
only I wish her to choose. I’m not afraid of the 
future; if Julius will give me some points I may do 
great things in the next thirty days. Where is 
Julius? [Opens his watch.] Nearly eight! impossi- 
ble! I’m sure Mrs. Mathews isn’t home; probably 
she and Julius are dining down-town, and taking in a 
theatre — but this house is full of people ; I can hear 
’em running up and down stairs in a tremendous hurry 
— they can’t be going to have a party ; this room doesn’t 
look like it. It’s that servant — she’s entertaining her 
friends while her mistress is out ; perhaps I’d better 
cast an eye on her ; however, it’s not my business, and 
as she knows I’m in here she won’t dare to do much. 
I wonder if she can give me some bread and cold 
meat ; I haven’t eaten since morning. No, I won’t 
ask her; I’ll finish my letter and then cut down to the 
rooms. Where was I? “ the Belgravia. I’m going to 
be perfectly frank with you, Clara ; though I should 


MORTAL LIPS. 


184 

be contented anywhere with you, I prefer the house — 
our own house. We should feel so much more settled 
in it, and, next to an hotel, a flat is the worst place to 
bring up children in.” \He breaks off with a nervous 
laugh.'] You’ve said it now, Phil ! That must come 
out. Tear up that sheet and begin over again. 
[Leans back in his chair ^ closes his eyes and murmursl] 
Children 1 a child ! what a strange idea ! and what a 
delightful idea. How proud I shall be ! father ! It 
seems as if I never heard the word before. It’s a 
sweet, a mysterious word ; a name so sacred, almost 
as sacred as mother. Oh, no, not so sacred as 
mother I Clara, Clara! oh, my darling! I am mad 
to take you in my arms — to press you against my 
heart ! 

[ The noises in the hall increase to an alarming extent ; 
the street door opens and closes two or three times, 
footsteps shake the stairs, voices mingle in a confu- 
sion of orders.] 

This is pandemonium ! As a friend of the family I 
must send these domestics away; I believe they’re all 
drunk. [Starts toward the door : at this moment 
Julius thvws it opoi, speaking excitedly to the family 
physicianl] 


A FIRST APPEARAiVCE. 


85 


Julius. — Let me go up with you, doctor. No ? — 
then run up as fast as you can, and send me word at 
once — every moment is precious ! 

Phil. — {Anxiously Is Mrs. Mathews ill ? 

Julius. — {Scarcely looking at Jiimi] You here ? You 
are sure everything is going on well, doctor? You 
think we may congratulate ourselves on all the cir- 
cumstances? I hear them calling you — hurry, doctor 
— ril go up with you ; I must go up with you — 

{He pushes the doctor to the door., and is about to follow 
into the hall, but the other restrains him, makes a 
gesture to urge him to be calm, and closes the door. 
Julius sinks into a chair, hiding his face with his 
hands. '\ 

Phil. — My dear boy, is Madge so sick as that ? I’m 
terribly grieved ; I didn’t know it. That lump of a 
maid never told me. That’s why I’m here in the 
way. I’ll clear out at once. 

Julius. — Don’t go, Phil — don’t leave me alone — 
Listen ; do you hear anything? 

Phil. — Not a sound. She is better. Hear how still 
it has become ! 

Jtdius. — Yes, it is still — frightfully still ; this silence 
fills me with terror. Oh, Phil! if — 


1 86 


MORTAL LIPS. 


Phil,— up, old man ! Isn’t it a good sign ? 
What is Madge’s malady? 

Julius.— [Groanmg?^ Talk of something else. 
When did you come to town ? 



ulate me, Julius! You don’t know Clara, but you 
will soon, and then you shall tell me what a treasure 
I’ve won. 


A F/NST APFEA/^ANCE. 187 

Julius. — {Listening at the doorl\ Thank God ! I 
hear somebody coming at last ! 

Phil. — She’s better, of course. I’m so glad. Now 
you can listen to me. I’m tired of being a bachelor, 
and I am about to become a — 

Julius . — [ Who has heard the last words, answers at 
random as he throws open the door and discovers the 
doctor.'] And 1^ please heaven, am about to become — 

Doctor. — {Finishing the sente?ice.] A father. Yes, 
Mr. Mathews, all has gone well, and you are — 

Julius. — Madge ! Madge ! 

Doctor. — Very comfortable. You may go up now, 
Mr. Mathews. 

[Julius utters a cry of joy and darts from the 
room. The Doctor enters.] 

Phil. — Eh? what’s this? That girl never told me 
a word, and consequently I’ve been making a fool of 
myself. Is it true ? 

Doctor. — A most promising infant, sir, has just been 
brought upon the stage of life, strong and healthy: do 
you hear that cry ? 

Phil. — {To himself 1] Well, well, well ! And I was 
thinking of giving up the Dramatic Press ! Fate is 


i88 


MORTAL LIPS. 



against me. As the season opens I find myself as 
usual taking notes at the first night and the first 
appearance. 

[Curtain.] 




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